


Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?

by oyhumbug



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternative Meet, Angst, College, Drama, F/M, Humor, Pre-island, Romance, alternative history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-04-01 14:41:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4023727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oyhumbug/pseuds/oyhumbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver Queen floats through life. Drunk, high, or hung over, everything is just a vapid blur... until it's not. Until he meets her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. May 18, 2006

**Author's Note:**

> If you listen to the Arctic Monkeys (congratulations on your great taste in music), you'll recognize the title of this ficlet. Although the story was LOOSELY inspired (and entitled) by the song of the same name, this is, by no means, a song-fic. If you are so inclined, there are fic visuals over at my Pinterest Board ['A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words.'](https://www.pinterest.com/oycharlynnrose/a-picture-is-worth-a-thousand-words-fic-visuals/) (But be forewarned that I work ahead, so there are slight spoilers.) As always, thanks for reading and enjoy!
> 
> ~Charlynn~

**Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?**

 

_May 18, 2006_

The first thing he noticed was her red pen.  
  
No, that was a lie. Oliver could lie to everyone else in his life – his parents, his girlfriend, his one night stands, his best friend, even his little sister, but he refused to lie to himself. That was a slippery slope that, once he fell down, even he knew he'd never be able to climb back up. So, in the spirit of being honest with himself, Oliver had to admit that what he really noticed first were her lips.  
  
They were pink – painted so, but he had a feeling the woman didn't need makeup to make her mouth look so attractive. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a bouncy ponytail, she wore glasses, and she was studiously taking the test before her. She looked prim and innocent... only, those lips were anything but. Pink was the color of little girls. It wasn't supposed to make his alcohol soaked brain sit up and take notice for the first time that morning. That week. But those pink painted lips were plump, and full, and sinfully wrapped around a red pen... and maybe Oliver had just spent far too much of his time at school going down on women instead of living up to the expectations his parents had set forth for him, but those kissable lips screamed anything but little girl.  
  
So, yeah, her lips were pink, and her pen was red, and it was those two things that finally broke through his otherwise debilitating hangover. Glancing around the auditorium style classroom where he currently sat _not_ taking the final exam still laying untouched and unopened upon the desk before him, Oliver tried – and failed – to remember what class this was for. In fact, he was having a hard time recognizing anything about his surroundings or even recalling how he had gotten there that morning. The last clear image in his mind was popping some pills one of Tommy's frat buddies had passed around like party favors and chasing the mystery drugs down with a generous portion of tequila.  
  
For anybody else, the memory gaps might have been troubling, but this wasn't Oliver's first rodeo, and it would probably be more alarming if he could actually remember something about his classes given his attendance record. In fact, he was just shocked he'd made an attempt to take a final in the first place. He was being expelled. Kicked out. Asked to leave. Whatever the term was when you failed to even attempt to earn a grade at Harvard and then was promptly shown the door nine months later, that was his future collegiate status. So, nothing about his current situation bothered him except....  
  
The red pen girl.  
  
There was just something about her that he couldn't put his finger on. Well, to be honest, if he even put forth half the effort he displayed in pissing off his father, Oliver knew without a doubt that he could put his whole goddamn hand on any part of the blonde that he wanted to touch. And he did – want to touch her. What disturbed him was the fact that it was May, and he was only now recognizing this desire. Something about that didn't sit right with Oliver – so much so, in fact, that it made him dismiss the fleeting idea of putting the quiet of the lecture hall to good use and sleeping off some of his hangover and, instead, focus on something other than the ice pick playing target practice with his optical nerves.  
  
As Oliver started to move, he only paid the test administrator at the front of the room – some bored, geek of a TA – a cursory glance. He knew the type. They were so convinced of their own abilities that they never once considered somebody else might be willing to skate by on someone else's work. In fact, the only reason Oliver looked at all was because he didn't want to get the studious blonde in trouble. Unlike him, she paid nothing _but_ her test any notice, and getting her in trouble wasn't going to score him her number... or an invitation to get into her panties.  
  
Luckily, the desk behind her was empty, so Oliver slithered his way down the platform seating and through the other students still diligently working away on their exams. Absently, he noted that he had swiped his own test packet before standing up, but that was more for a convenient cover story if caught and less about any real desire to actually attempt the final. By the time he slid into the chair directly behind Red Pen Girl, Oliver had earned himself several glares. They were an easy price to pay for a chance to find out what the blonde tasted like. She, however, didn't seem to notice his approach.  
  
Well, that wasn't going to do.  
  
Leaning forward, Oliver curled his torso around the plastic desktop, positioning himself so that he could both be mere inches from her neck and look over her shoulder. She wore an Oxford blouse. It was lilac. Normally, he'd find the choice to be too tame for his taste, but, at this angle, Oliver realized such a shirt worked for him. And it certainly worked for the blonde. Because, for whatever the reason – comfort, style, or allure, she had several buttons open, allowing him a tantalizing peek at the very tops of her round, pert breasts. It wasn't enough to provide him with a glimpse of her bra – no doubt, something ultra feminine and colorful... just like everything else she wore, but it was enough to confirm Oliver's earlier concern as to why he'd failed to pick her up months before.  
  
“Hey,” he whispered against the shell of her ear. Briefly, he worried about his breath. He was still wearing his clothes from the night before, so there was no way he had made it back to his apartment to shower and brush his teeth that morning before stumbling into this unfamiliar classroom. But, just as quickly as the concern appeared, Oliver banished it. Nobody else had ever complained about his morning after breath, so why would this girl? His confidence was only compounded when, after tensing momentarily in surprise, the blonde shivered. She hadn't even seen him yet and already was reacting towards him exactly how he wanted her to. “What's your name?”  
  
She didn't answer, but his question was met by several annoyed shushes.  
  
Cock-blockers.  
  
Not that Oliver was deterred.  
  
In fact, if anything, their demands for silence just egged him on even more.  
  
He dipped his head lower so that, when he next spoke, his lips were a mere whisper from brushing against that always sensitive hollow between Red Pen Girl's neck and shoulders. “I haven't been able to take my eyes off of you all morning,” he murmured against the cotton of her blouse. Oliver noticed that she smelled like citrus and mint. Usually, he'd think that an odd combination – like drinking orange juice right after you brushed your teeth, but, on her at least, it worked. It was just so... clean, and it made him want even more to be the one to dirty her up. Shifting so that he could nose the back of her neck, Oliver felt the fine, loose tendrils of hair that had escaped her perky ponytail tickle his skin. Just before he closed his eyes in triumph, he saw her body react to his presence, to his words, to his touch – involuntarily or not – by breaking out in goosebumps. “The way you wrap your lips around your pen,” he murmured, letting his words trail away. Oliver didn't need to say anything more; they both knew _exactly_ what he was hinting towards.  
  
At that point, she was thoroughly distracted, so he took the opportunity as it presented itself to him – sitting up slightly and reaching around her petite body to snag her test packet. As soon as his fingers wrapped around the papers, Red Pen Girl let out an adorable little 'eep!' of surprise. In vain, she tried to grab the exam away from him, but, even still half hungover, Oliver was too fast for her. Before anyone could realize what he had just done, he had both her completed and his entirely blank tests spread out before him, the answer to the only question that mattered that morning awaiting his perusal.  
  
Her name was Felicity Smoak.  
  
Oliver smirked to himself, pleased with his discovery. Not only was the blonde's name unique enough that even he'd have a decent shot at remembering it, but it fit her as well. At first, she appeared all soft and fragile. Feminine. But, upon closer inspection, you started to notice more about her. She had a rebellious streak – the red pen, an awareness of her own sensuality – the popped buttons on her blouse, a spark of danger – allowing him to take her test without immediately ratting on him... unlike every other self-serving, brown-nosing Ivy-Leaguer in the room. It was this realization that made Oliver pause as he went to hand her back her exam.  
  
Should he...?  
  
Shrugging his shoulders, he decided why the hell not? Oliver was not a guy to turn away from such an easy opportunity. One aced exam wouldn't be enough to salvage his otherwise dismal and disappointing scholastic career, but the time it would take to copy Red Pen Girl's – Felicity's – test would give him just that much longer to come up with a plan for his next move. Plus, hopefully by then, all the other dweebs in the room would be long-gone, and he'd actually have a chance to get her alone as they were walking out. After all, he not only owed her an apology but also some gratitude... and a chance to take him back to her place. They could start their summer break off together with a bang.  
  
Literally.  
  
Grinning smugly to himself, Oliver set to work in completing his exam, changing enough of Felicity's answers to not get her in trouble. It didn't take him long to realize that it was for some kind of prerequisite humanities course – all dead painters and weird as shit composers, stuff his mother, and father, and every other member of their idle rich crowd would know just because it was considered proper. Oliver had no interest in conforming to their world, though. He was twenty-one and on his third college already, each of them having tried – _and failed –_ to force this crap down his throat, and, if it wasn't for his need to see this game with Red Pen Girl through, he would have walked out of the doors as soon as he realized what the test covered.  
  
As it was, even with Felicity's no-doubt perfect test in hand, Oliver couldn't be bothered to finish his own. So, ten minutes after stealing her exam from her desk, Oliver unceremoniously dropped it back down in front of Felicity, picked up her book-bag from the floor – slinging it over his own shoulder, and took one of her hands in his – leading her down to drop off their finals together and then out of the lecture hall. She stood stiff beside him – her muscles all taut with anxiety and mounting fury, and, if he found her cute while studiously chewing on her pen, in a temper Felicity was downright adorable. But she didn't give anything away as they moved together. She didn't wrench her fingers out of his grip, she didn't stomp away as soon as they were free of the classroom, and, as they approached the doors which would lead them outside into a crisp yet sunny May morning, Oliver felt a cocky smile tilt the corners of his mouth upwards in mirth and satisfaction. His plan to get the girl was going to work.  
  
It always did.  
  
But then she was spinning around on him in a swirl of colorful fury. The red from her pen was replaced by the blush to her cheeks, and, instead of staring at her pink lips, Oliver found his gaze locked upon the coral hue of her nails as she used her hands to shove against his chest, pushing him away from her. “What the hell!” Felicity didn't give him a chance to respond before she was railing against him. “Why would you do that to me? For ten minutes I sat there, scared stiff. If we would have gotten caughtt... if we get caught....” She swallowed roughly, and, when Oliver saw a glimmer of tears coat her baby blue eyes, he felt the first flicker of doubt and guilt lick through his stomach. “Look, I get it. Obviously, you're some rich brat who can get into any school he wants with a flick of his daddy's check-signing wrist, but some of us aren't here to join frats and kill time until our trust fund kicks in; some of us worked hard to get here, work hard to pay for this opportunity, work hard to stay here, and I'm not going to allow some arrogant, self-important, playboy... jerk to ruin it for me.”  
  
By the time she finished with her rant, with her dress-down, with her threat, Felicity was out of breath, and Oliver was thoroughly chastised... and turned on. “Are you finished?”  
  
“I don't know,” she snapped petulantly.  
  
“Well, while you come up with more to yell at me for, let me first apologize. I never meant to scare you or make you think that your future was in jeopardy.” She opened her mouth to protest, but Oliver talked over top of her... something he was pretty sure was quite the impressive feat. “Felicity, I don't even go to this school.”  
  
That got her attention. That made her snap her mouth shut. That made her blink rapidly, an endearing furrow of confusion wrinkling her brow.  
  
Glancing around what he now knew to be the campus of MIT and _not_ Harvard, Oliver chuckled to himself. It was Felicity's red pen which gave it away. MIT was an impressive school – as equal to Harvard as it was different, but no one at Harvard would take a final exam with a red pen. And that was nothing against Felicity. After all, he found everything about her to be fascinating and appealing, especially the way that she seemed to stand out from the crowd – all colors and light, and everything about his fellow Crimsons pompous and tiresome... not that he was any more a Harvard student, really, than Felicity was.  
  
Once he noticed Felicity's red pen, everything else that was out of place that morning snapped into focus for Oliver. The reason why he had failed to pick up Felicity months before was because he was seeing her that day for the first time. He hadn't recognized the classroom he had been sitting in, because he had never been there before. And everything else that had been so alien to him was equally explained away by Oliver's hungover state. Whether he was there due to his own drunken ineptitude or because of a prank, the results were the same.  
  
“The last thing I remember before looking down at my test booklet this morning was... having a drink with some friends last night.” That was an honest if not sanitized version of the truth. “My guess? Those same buddies thought it'd be funny this morning if they shipped my drunk ass off in a cab to the wrong school, and I'm as terrible of a student as you surmised with just one glance in my direction to not realize I wasn't actually enrolled in Freshman Western Humanities until 45 minutes into the course's final exam.”  
  
Felicity still looked put out, but she had stopped shoving him away from her, at least. “You're still an asshole,” she accused.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“And I'm pretty sure that your little stunt _traumatized_ me.” Felicity's eyes twinkled from behind her square glasses, and Oliver smirked. “This is going to take many boxes of red wine to recover from.”  
  
At that, he winced. _Boxed_ _wine_? She really was a scholarship student. The tiny part of Oliver that somehow managed to stay connected with reality and those who weren't desensitized to it by the obscene lifestyle he called his own suddenly felt twice as bad for what he had done. Even if he managed to somehow get Felicity's number as a result of this stunt, he wouldn't deserve it.  
  
Didn't mean he wasn't going to try, though.  
  
“Red wine that I owe you after what I did in there.” As he hooked his thumb over his shoulder indicating the lecture hall, Oliver never once considered the fact that Felicity was, no doubt, underage.  
  
“I shouldn't,” she hedged. Before he could tell her that she should – that she _really, really_ should, Felicity was already giving in. “But red wine is my weakness, and I just bet you have an entire cellar of it back home in... The Hamptons?”  
  
“Felicity Smoak,” he teased her, feigning disbelief and affront. “You wouldn't be trying to get my address, would you, because I'm not that kind of guy; I'm not that easy.” In response to his teasing, she just raised a brow and tipped her head to the side in an adorable display of, without words, calling him out on his bullshit. “You at least have to get me to put out before I invite you home to meet my family.”  
  
“Ha!,” she challenged. “If you took home every girl you slept with, your parents would have to move to Brunei and have you named Sultan.”  
  
“Jealous,” Oliver baited.  
  
“More like repulsed.”  
  
“Well, then, it's a good thing I'm not inviting you to dinner with my parents... in Starling City,” he continued to banter with her. As they talked, they moved towards the street where, at any minute, Oliver knew Felicity was going to insist he hail a cab to take himself back to his side of Cambridge. “All I'm asking for is your number... so that I can let you know when I get home safe later.”  
  
“Yeah... can't say I'm worried about either your ability to pay for a taxi or for a taxi driver's ability to find the campus of Harvard University.”  
  
“But what about that red wine I owe you,” Oliver continued to pursue her number. Pursue her. “It won't find your doorstep all on its own.”  
  
Felicity shook her head in part amusement and part exasperation. “I might chew on a red pen, but I didn't use it to write 'sucker' across my forehead.” He went to interject with yet another argument in his favor when Felicity held up a delicate, soft hand and stopped him cold in his tracks. “However,” and she pulled out her own cell phone, passing it over to him. “Give me your number, and I promise to at least consider your offer of apology.”  
  
Beggars couldn't be choosers, and Felicity Smoak was worth a little groveling and pleading. Oliver hadn't done anything more with her than hold her hand, but the few minutes he had spent in her company made him feel more alive, more aware, more... everything than all of his previous conquests, one night stands, and even reunions with Laurel during the past year had made him feel.  
  
Satisfied with the outcome of his morning... and not wanting to push his luck, Oliver typed his name and number into Felicity's phone with one hand while hailing a cab with the other. He was handing it back to her as he opened the taxi's back door, sliding into the yellow sedan and watching Felicity's expression the entire time. Maybe she didn't recognize his face – what, being a nerd and all – a hot nerd but a nerd nonetheless, but she'd definitely know his name. As realization washed across Felicity's delicate features – her plump, pink lips and bright, blue eyes going comically round and wide with comprehension, Oliver grinned widely.  
  
“Call me,” he dared her.  
  
Then, he slammed the cab's door shut, and the car pulled away.


	2. June 23, 2006

_June 23, 2006_

Felicity never called.  
  
She didn't call to reciprocate the gesture and give him her phone number. She didn't call to claim her red wine apology. She didn't even call to make sure that he didn't go back to his apartment, fall into a drunken slumber, and choke to death on his own vomit.   
  
And, at first, the fact that Felicity failed to call him didn't bother Oliver. It was the end of the semester, which meant that there were more parties to attend than hours in the night to do so. He found other girls to pick up, other girls to make out with, other girls to sleep with, and other girls to sneak out on the morning after. However, much to Oliver's dismay, even though his life went back to exactly the way it was before Felicity Smoak entered the picture, nothing felt the same after he met her. The parties weren't as fun, the chase wasn't as exciting, and the girls weren't as tempting. Oh, he still had sex with them, but Oliver found that, while he was inside of his conquests, they all shared only one face – one delicate, pink-lipped, blue-eyed face.   
  
It was maddening... as was the fact that, unlike his current inability to forget his Red Pen Girl, she had no problem moving past their meeting, and, if there was anything that could get under Oliver's skin, it was being ignored.   
  
So, it was in his opinion – as he sat waiting outside of her dorm room – that Felicity had left him with no choice but to track her down. However, that was hours ago, and his anticipation had long since morphed into frustration. With his back towards her door and his knees bent and spread shoulder's width apart before him, Oliver sulked. And he drank, too – a bottle of vodka grasped loosely, carelessly between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. Here he was, putting himself out for a girl who had given him absolutely no indication that she was even interested, and she couldn't even be bothered to be home. Where the hell else would anyone be at 4:30 on a Tuesday afternoon during summer break?  
  
“Mr. Queen?”  
  
“No,” he replied automatically, angling his head to the side in order to see Felicity cautiously approaching. “Mr. Queen's my father.” Despite himself – despite his earlier annoyance, Oliver found himself smiling at the sight of her. She was just... too delightful _not_ to smile at. “My friends all call me Ollie.”  
  
Her pretty face scrunched up at that, but she didn't tell him why. Instead, she asked, “what are you doing here?”  
  
He stood up, and, if Oliver stumbled slightly in doing so, well... it was five o'clock somewhere, right? Grinning at her, he answered, “I came to find out how we did on our test.”  
  
“And you found out where I lived how exactly?”  
  
“Would you believe me if I said I just followed my body's natural instincts, that it... sensed you?” At her less than pleased expression, Oliver found himself curious. “Why?”  
  
“Because I've already had one crazy, lacrosse stalker this year. I don't need another,” Felicity snapped pointedly.  
  
Raising his right hand... including the vodka bottle it still held... and placing it over his heart, he solemnly replied, “I promise you, Felicity. I do not play lacrosse. Why?” And, this time, it was his turn to frown. “Do I look like a lacrosse player?” Because Oliver had a strict policy against team sports.   
  
Seemingly against her own will, Felicity's gaze dropped from his face and observed his body. Oliver smirked. “I just... a girl can never be too careful. Too safe. I don't know you, and then you show up outside of my....”  
  
Interrupting her, Oliver tried to put Felicity at ease. “Don't worry. All I did was go to MIT's records office and... request to know where you lived.”  
  
“Yes, because that's reassuring – knowing that all it takes is a little flirty-flirt, and the student worker will just hand out someone's personal information.”  
  
“Jealous?”  
  
“Hardly,” Felicity scoffed. And, unfortunately, the remark rang true.   
  
Oliver just ignored her, however. “Because, while I might have smiled at the mousy girl behind the counter, I find myself, recently, only attracted to blondes.”  
  
“I dye it.”  
  
“Even better,” he continued to banter with her, stepping closer and forcing Felicity to tilt her head back in order to meet his unwavering gaze.   
  
“Three months ago, my hair was black.” She shrugged her shoulders unapologetically. “I went through a goth phase.”  
  
 _Intriguing._ “Have any pictures?”  
  
“None that a Harvard student could find.”  
  
“And before it was black?”  
  
“As far as you're concerned, it might as well have been a washed out brown like that mousy girl from the records department.”  
  
“You, Felicity, could never be mousy,” he corrected her. “But never-mind. You don't have to tell me. That just means I'll have to work harder in order to discover what your natural hair color is.” With a wolfish grin, he dropped his eyes down to stare at her body, allowing the gesture to speak for itself.  
  
Oliver must have pushed her too hard, too fast, though, because Felicity took a step back, her arms coming up to fold across her chest. “What are you doing here, Oliver?”  
  
“I wanted to see you.”  
  
“Well, you saw me,” she stated, ushering him down the hallway towards the exit. “Now, you can go.”  
  
“Not without your number.”  
  
“Are you... threatening me with your company in order to get what you want?”  
  
Well, he wouldn't have put it like that, but whatever it took. Not that Oliver would tell Felicity that. Instead, he changed the subject. “You know, I wasn't expecting you to still be in Cambridge. My plan was to get your home address and then come surprise you on my way back to Starling later this summer.”  
  
“And, from the way you talked about your study habits, I would have thought you'd be among the first to leave after finals.”  
  
It didn't go unnoticed by Oliver that Felicity rarely replied to his questions with a straightforward answer. Instead, her go-to response was usually a question of her own. “The lease on my apartment isn't up until the end of July. Tommy and I figured we'd stay around here for as long as we could before heading back home to find out where our parents are sending us _this time_.”  
  
“Hopefully, it's a state school,” Felicity suggested. At his raised, curious brows, she explained, “I don't care how much money you have. There's no sense throwing it away on a lost cause.”  
  
“Ouch,” Oliver feigned insult, clutching his chest as if she had struck a physical blow with her words. “Why don't you invite me in, and I'll prove to you just how not lost of a cause I am.”  
  
“Uh, I would,” Felicity clucked her tongue. “But I don't see my promised red wine.”  
  
“I didn't know if you'd actually be here,” Oliver bantered back. “But, for future reference, is that all it takes to get inside your... dorm room?” She just glared at him, so he shifted gears again. “Where were you, anyway?”  
  
“At work.”  
  
Incredulous, he rhetorically asked, “you have a job?”  
  
“Yeah. Some of us have to pay our own way through life, Oliver. We're not all trustfundarians like you. I work during the school year, and I work twice as much – forty hours a week – during the summer. Plus, I'm taking summer classes, too, so I can graduate early.”  
  
Oliver was completely baffled by this. “Why would you want to do that?”  
  
“If you have to ask, then you'd never understand.” And then she sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Look, Oliver, I'm exhausted, and I still have a ton of programming to do tonight, so, if you could just....”  
  
He really didn't want to hear her ask or tell him to leave again. So, instead, Oliver laid all of his cards out on the table. “I haven't been able to stop thinking about you, Felicity Smoak.”  
  
“Try a lobotomy. That should do it.”  
  
Her quick retort caught him by surprise and made him laugh. “See, that's exactly what I mean.” Crowding her once more, Oliver backed Felicity up until he had her leaning against the far wall. Lifting his left hand, he traced one of the thin straps of her sundress. “There isn't anybody like you. Everyone else? They just tell me exactly what they think I want to hear. Any other girl would already have me in her dorm you, but you, Felicity Smoak? You won't even give me your number.”  
  
“Fine,” Felicity groaned. Just like that day outside of her final, she spread her hands across his chest and pushed him away... only, this time, her nails were painted an electric blue, and the gesture wasn't born so much from anger as it was exasperation. In Oliver's book, that was a marked improvement. He was making progress with her.   
  
Making grabby hands, Felicity demanded, “give me your phone, Oliver.”  
  
He did as he was told, reaching into the pocket of his cargo shorts to retrieve his Blackberry. As he passed it over to her – making sure to linger on her touch as long as Felicity would allow him, Oliver grinned smugly. Practically before he could blink, Felicity was tossing him back his phone. Never before had he ever seen such fast fingers. So, she was... dexterous... with her hands. Oh, the possibilities....  
  
“Alright, now, you have what you came here for, so it's time for you to leave.” Somehow, Felicity's palms ended up pressed against his shoulder blades, and she was propelling him down the hallway towards the elevator. “Do not call me during the day while I'm working or when I'm in class. Do not call me after 11:00. Some of us have to get up before noon. If you don't have Verizon, don't call me until night, because I will not waste my minutes on you, Oliver Queen. And do not send me naked picture messages.”  
  
He dug his heels in, but she was persistent... and stronger than she looked. “What about as email attachments?”  
  
“Please,” Felicity ridiculed. “Like there aren't enough inappropriate pictures of you online already.”  
  
She might have meant her words to be censoring, but that's not what Oliver heard. “So, you've looked?”  
  
She ignored him as she gave his back one last push, making Oliver stumble onto the lift. He turned to face her only to find her looking at him speculatively, hands upon her hips. “Are you always drunk?”  
  
“I'm not drunk.” He held his arm out so that the elevator's door wouldn't close. “I'm tipsy.”  
  
“You're carrying around a half empty bottle of vodka, Oliver.”  
  
“I like to see it as still being half full.” At her scowl, he said, “and I have a high tolerance for liquor.”  
  
Dryly, she remarked, “your parents must be so proud.”  
  
The elevator started to ring, for he had been holding the doors open for too long. “I'll see you soon, Felicity.”  
  
“You mean you'll talk to me soon?”  
  
“That, too.”  
  
He finally removed his arm. As the lift's door started to close, Oliver made sure to get in the last word. “And I'm really not drunk.”  
  
He wasn't. Half a bottle of vodka over a two hour time-span? That was nothing. He might, however, still be high. Oliver wasn't sure how long it took the effects of a joint to work its way out of his system. Usually, he didn't day smoke. He kept most of his recreational drug use to when he was at parties. But getting high helped him to relax, and he had needed that earlier before he set off to meet Felicity at her dorm. He had been too keyed up, too agitated, too nervous.  
  
 _She_ made him nervous – something no one else had ever been able to do.   
  
As the elevator stopped on the ground floor and the doors opened, prompting Oliver to exit, he allowed the thought that such a response towards someone should have scared him away, but, instead, it only made him want his Red Pen Girl that much more. Now, he just needed to convince her that she wanted him as well. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are [VISUALS](https://www.pinterest.com/oycharlynnrose/a-picture-is-worth-a-thousand-words-fic-visuals/) that go along with this post, but, like always, they come with a warning: I work ahead, so be forewarned of spoilers. Enjoy and thanks for reading!
> 
> ~Charlynn~


	3. July 31, 2006

_July 31, 2006_

“Felicity!”  
  
She didn't answer. Letting his head fall forward to rest against the arm he had braced against her doorjamb, Oliver knocked again. Okay, so he practically pounded down her door. And he called her name over and over again... like a chant. Like a prayer.   
  
“Felicity! FELICITY! _Fe-lic-it-y_!”  
  
Oliver loved saying her name. The way it rolled off the tongue...? Well, it made him think of other things he could do to her if he moved his tongue that same way. And he said her name a lot. Despite all the rules Felicity placed upon their phone conversations, Oliver found himself calling her often – mostly at night, mostly when he was feeling far too lonely despite all the people he constantly tried to surround himself with. He'd lay in his bed, pre-gaming before heading out for a party, and he'd call her to make fun of Harvard and the kids who went there... which, as of more than two months ago, stopped including him. He'd call her to ask her about her day, to ask her what color her nails were painted, to ask her what she was wearing... beneath her pajamas. And, although Oliver always wanted to hear what she had to say, especially in regards to his always-voiced lingerie question, he also kind of called just to hear her voice.   
  
She made him laugh. She made him smile. She made him... happy.  
  
“What,” Felicity demanded. Her sudden appearance... not to mention the door being ripped open in front of him... startled Oliver, nearly sending him crashing to the floor. She was grumpy, and rumpled – her hair a riotous, curly mess, and her sleep clothes – a pair of boxer shorts and a tank top that told Oliver she wasn't wearing a bra underneath – were wrinkled from tossing and turning. But then Felicity was groaning, and the deep, raspy sound snapped Oliver's gaze back up to her face. He'd never heard her make such a noise before, and, suddenly, all he wanted to do was coax her into making it again.   
  
While on her back.  
  
Squinting against the bright lights of the hallway and because she wasn't wearing her glasses, Felicity scowled at him. “What are you doing here, Oliver,” she demanded to know, surprising him when she reached forward and wrapped her hands around his left wrist, bringing it up close to her face. She frowned further and added, “at... late o'clock?”  
  
“I wanted to see you.”  
  
“Yeah. I think all of MIT has realized that – what, with the way you've been bellowing outside my door for the past five minutes.”  
  
“Well, you wouldn't answer.”  
  
“I was trying to sleep,” she ground out between her teeth, dropping his hand like touching him suddenly burned her skin. It was only after Oliver brought his arm back down to his side that he realized, if anyone had been singed, it was him by _her_ touch. “And, what, did you forget about my 11:00 rule?”  
  
“I'm not allowed to call you after 11:00. You never said anything about stopping by.”  
  
Grumbling under her breath, Felicity complained, “I would think that would be implied.”  
  
“Look, I'm sorry, Felicity.” And he was. He never liked making her mad. Okay, so that wasn't entirely true. Felicity was never more attractive than when she was feisty, but Oliver always tried to rile her up towards other things or other people, never him. Their friendship was still too new for that, too fragile, and disappointing her might have been the worst feeling in the world. “I know you have to get up early tomorrow, and I promised myself I wouldn't do this, but... but it's my last night in Cambridge. I'm leaving tomorrow.”  
  
Her irritation towards him vanished. Reaching out a hand to tenderly grasp his forearm, she sympathized, “I know, Oliver, and it's going to be great.”  
  
“I don't want to go.”  
  
“Come on, of course you do,” she tried to convince him, moving so that she, too, was leaning up against the doorframe... only she was standing inside of her dorm room, while he was still out in the hallway. That made Oliver frown. “You and Tommy got that _amazing_ new apartment in Starling. I mean, I gained access to the building's security cameras to check out the view, so I should know.” As if realizing what she had just admitted, he watched as Felicity flushed a pretty shade of rose, fidgeted by rubbing her bare toes against the hard floor below their feet, and rushed to change the subject. “You'll be able to see your little sister whenever you want, you already know the club scene, and you're practically a celebrity there.”  
  
“And my dad's going to constantly be up my ass about school, and my grades, and _just where exactly do you see your life going in five years, son?_ Not to mention the fact that my mother will expect me to attend all of her boring charity functions, Thea will want me to drive her to school, the clubs in Starling are _lame_ , and it's hard to have the type of fun I like to have when there are cameras constantly following you around.”  
  
Not to mention the fact that Oliver was going to miss her. Maybe he didn't see her all that often, and, sure, they could still talk over the phone just as easily with him in Starling as in Cambridge, but it wouldn't be the same. It just... wouldn't. He liked knowing that she was just a cab ride away, and Oliver actually thought going to class would be fun if he could crash more of her courses come fall. But, now, that wouldn't be an option. Briefly, Oliver contemplated trying to convince Felicity into transferring to Starling City University with him, but he knew his actions would be in futility.   
  
“Are you always this whiny when you're high?”  
  
Caught off guard by Felicity's question, Oliver glanced up, meeting her pointed smirk. Even half-blind without her glasses, and she saw him better than most. “I'm not whiny.” Before she could contradict him, he admitted, “I'm... sad.”  
  
“Then you're on the wrong drugs.”  
  
Despite his otherwise somber mood, Oliver chuckled. “Just what exactly do you know about drugs, Felicity Smoak?”  
  
“Hey,” she challenged defensively. “I've had a pot brownie before.”  
  
Oliver grinned, amused. She was utterly adorable. Without conscience thought, he lifted his right arm so as to drag his index finger back and forth across the petal soft skin of her forearms which were still folded in front of her chest. “And what are you like when you're high?”  
  
“Blue,” Felicity answered succinctly.  
  
“So, you get sad, too?” Oliver found that he was fascinated by the contrasts between them – his touch rough against the creamy silk that was the inside of her elbow, his digit so large against the fine bones of her wrist.   
  
“I wasn't being metaphorical,” Felicity corrected him. He looked up to find her eyes wide with admission. “I literally turned blue. Turns out, I'm allergic.”  
  
He laughed joyfully. Only Felicity.... “To weed?”  
  
“No,” she frowned in response towards his confusion. “To nuts... which I didn't know were _also_ in the pot brownie.” When he continued to chuckle, she glared at him. Pouted. “It's not funny, Oliver! I went into anaphylactic shock. They had to pump my stomach. You try explaining _that_ hospital bill to your mother.”  
  
“My mother never actually sees our bills, Felicity.”  
  
“Exactly,” she exclaimed, tossing her hands up in the air.   
  
Not knowing what point she believed herself to have just made, Oliver let it go, instead focusing on why he was really there. “So, are you going to invite me in?”  
  
“I don't think that's a good idea.”  
  
He took a step closer to her, allowing one of his feet to slide between her own and the other to cage her in against the doorjamb. If Felicity took a deep breath, her chest would brush against his own. He also resumed running his finger along her skin – this time, focusing upon her exposed shoulders and occasionally dipping his touch beneath the barrier of her tank top's strap. “Why not?”  
  
“Because you're high.”  
  
“But you're not, so at least one of us is still making sound decisions. That's one more than usual when I find myself standing in front of a girl's dorm room.”  
  
Felicity knocked her head to the side, not impressed with his reasoning. “I think you just made my case for me.”  
  
“But I'm leaving tomorrow, and, of all the girls I could have spent my last night in Cambridge with, I wanted to spend it with you.”  
  
Felicity yawned. “That might have worked like... five hours ago, Oliver, but I'm tired, you still haven't brought me my red wine, and all I want to do is go to bed.”  
  
He grinned. “All I want to do is go to bed with you, too. So, see. We want the same thing. You should definitely invite me in.”  
  
“Don't you have a girlfriend?”  
  
“We broke up again,” he quickly dismissed, waiving off her argument. “I think?”  
  
“So, I'd be what – your rebound?”  
  
“You'd never be _just_ a rebound, Felicity.”  
  
“Maybe not,” she allowed. And, for a moment, Oliver thought he had won, but then she continued to talk. “But I'd definitely be justa one night stand. You're moving across the country, so it couldn't be anything more than that, and I'm worth more than that. I deserve more than that. I _want_ more than that.”  
  
Suddenly, their conversation had taken a turn Oliver had never anticipated it taking, but he found himself oh so glad that it had. “With me?”  
  
“Oliver, you're not ready for anything more than a one night stand.” Sighing, she reached for her door, preparing to close it. “Now, you need to leave, and I'm going back to bed. _Alone_.”  
  
“But Felicity,” he started to protest, but she ignored him, forcing him to step back and then locking the door once it was closed. Leaning his forehead against the wood, he called her name one last time. “ _Fe-lic-it-y_?”  
  
“Fine, Oliver,” she grumbled, playfully sounding provoked. “I guess you can send me naked picture messages. Topless! I meant topless, not naked. Or, well, naked chest pictures? Ugh,” she groaned, and Oliver could imagine how flushed with embarrassment she was behind her closed door. “You know what I mean. My mouth hates me even more at late-o'clock.”  
  
“But I don't,” he reassured her, infusing a note of flirtation into his tone. “I like you like this – unfiltered, raw, suggestive.”  
  
“Goodnight, Oliver,” she yelled, thoroughly ending their conversation and dismissing him.  
  
“I'll call you as soon as I land, Felicity,” he promised her as he walked away. She didn't respond, but he also didn't wait around long to see if she would.   
  
Felicity hadn't even let him step foot into her door room – let alone kissed him goodbye, but Oliver didn't look at the night like a lost opportunity. With any other girl, he would have gotten laid; with Felicity, he got yelled at, teased, and turned down cold. It was... exhilarating; _she_ was exhilarating.   
  
With a spring to his step and a whistled, jaunty tune upon his smiling lips, Oliver took the stairs and left.  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last chapter with [**VISUALS**](https://www.pinterest.com/oycharlynnrose/a-picture-is-worth-a-thousand-words-fic-visuals/) for a few posts. Check them out but be forewarned that I work ahead, so SLIGHT spoilers abound.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope everyone enjoyed the update!
> 
> ~Charlynn~


	4. September 7, 2006

_September 7, 2006_

“Shouldn't you be in your poli-sci class right now?”  
  
“What,” Oliver questioned, thoroughly confused. Not only was he in the middle of enjoying a nice, afternoon buzz, but he was also splitting his limited ability to focus between his phone call with Felicity and the video game he was playing. Oh, plus there were snacks. Lots of snacks. The last thing he needed was for their conversation to take an unexpected turn, and talking about school? That was not only unexpected but also unwanted. Whatever happened to 'hello,' or 'Oliver, how are you,' or he had really been hoping for a 'I've missed you so much.' “I don't even know what that means.”  
  
“Poli-sci?”  
  
“Repeating it does not inspire clarity.”  
  
“Political Science,” Felicity supplied. While Oliver tapped away on the buttons of his Xbox 360 remote – his phone held between his shoulder and chin, because, although he knew there was a hands-free option, he had no idea how to work it yet, he allowed his silence to speak for him. “You know, your Introduction to International Relations course?” In fact, Oliver didn't know. “Which I'm sure is more historic than contemporary, but, when you're running the international conglomerate that is Queen Consolidated in a few years, those insights into the relationships of days gone by will come in handy. After all, we wouldn't want you to tank some multi-billion dollar deal by accidentally insulting some foreign investor just because you weren't aware of....”  
  
And that's as far as Oliver allowed _that_ ramble to go. Usually, he enjoyed listening to Felicity babble. It was charming. But it seemed like she was always busy. Between school, and work, and the fact that Felicity was actually involved on campus, the last thing Oliver wanted to discuss now that he actually had her on the phone was school, especially his school. “So, how do you know my schedule anyway? _I_ don't even know my schedule?”  
  
He expected Felicity to become suddenly shy and timid in light of his question, but he should have known better. She never reacted like any other girl – hell, any other person – he had ever met, and she certainly didn't back down from a challenge. Eventually, he'd get used to that. “If you can flash your panty-dropping smile at the mousy housing girl in order to get my address, then I can... check out your academic records.”  
  
Oh, there was just so much for Oliver to work with there, he didn't even know where to begin.  
  
Okay, so that was a lie. “Felicity?” And he waited several beats for dramatic effect. “I'm smiling right now.”  
  
While she sputtered on the other end of the line, Oliver found himself... shocked that he had never considered... well, _that_... until now. He wanted to have sex with Felicity possibly more than he had ever wanted to have sex with any other woman before. Not only was she on the other side of the country, though, she was also holding out on him. Oliver was self-aware enough to realize that Felicity's outright refusal to sleep with him might have been at least a part of her appeal, but it didn't stop him from craving her, and, now, he was realizing that the distance didn't have to stop him from having her. In a way. Glancing around the otherwise empty living room of the apartment he shared with Tommy... for now – his dad was already threatening to break the lease and stop payment, forcing Oliver to move back home because of his non-existent grades, Oliver considered his options. The video game he had been playing long forgotten, his hands dropped away from the controller... only to find the button and zipper closure of his cargo shorts.   
  
Before he could go through with his idea, however, Felicity's words snapped Oliver back to the moment. “You still there?”  
  
“Yeah,” he sighed, grinned. Despite already being half-hard, Oliver decided to wait. The last thing he needed was for Tommy to walk in while he was getting himself off to Felicity's voice over the phone. Not only was his friend still in the dark about Oliver's Red Pen Girl, but he'd never live down resorting to his own hand when there was a city full of willing women just waiting to get him off. Resituating himself, Oliver picked up his controller once more, restarting his game. In his distraction, he had managed to get his character killed. “Just thinking about you _checking_ me out.”  
  
Felicity groaned. The sound did absolutely nothing to dampen his arousal, and Oliver found himself more than slightly uncomfortable where he sat leaning up against his couch. “You know that's not what I meant. Usually, I do say horribly inappropriate things, but that was surprisingly innocent, and you're twisting my words around for your own benefit. That's not very gentlemanly of you, Oliver.” This caused him to sit up a little straighter. Was Felicity actually returning the flirt? And then she gasped in mock outrage, and he smirked in response, because she was. “What would the DAR say?”  
  
Apparently, Felicity knew which groups and committees his mother belonged to as well.  
  
Of course she did.  
  
“So, what about my life _haven't_ you hacked your way into?”  
  
“Hack is such an ugly word.” He could hear the shudder of offense roll through her. He wished that he could see it. “I prefer to think of it as using the means made available to me while, at the same time, highlighting for others the weaknesses they need to address. Really, I'm actually providing a community service.”  
  
“You're a regular humanitarian, Felicity Smoak.”  
  
“I do what I can,” she played along.  
  
“But how exactly does you obtaining my class schedule help save the world?”  
  
She didn't miss a beat. “Someday, you're going to be in charge of one of the biggest, most influential companies _in the world_ , Oliver. So, you getting an education is important, and, for now, someone needs to stay on top of you.” Realizing what she had just said, Felicity tried to back-peddle. “That's so not... _Ugh!_ ”  
  
Oliver chuckled. “Are you volunteering for the... position?”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
That just made him laugh even harder. “I expected a better argument out of you, Miss Smoak.”  
  
“And I expected you to be in your poli-sci class on a Thursday at 2:30 instead of at home, high and no doubt playing with yourself.” Before he could interject, she rushed to clear up what she had just insinuated. “I meant _by_ yourself. With video games.” His answer was a lengthy pause which only made Felicity just that much more uncomfortable. “You're not...?”  
  
“No,” Oliver put her out of her misery, making Felicity sigh in relief. “Not this time. But soon. I've thought about it.” Suddenly, he could barely think of anything else.   
  
“Oh my god,” she moaned in embarrassment. The sound was just as delicious, just as stimulating, as her groan. Finally, Felicity resorted to yelling at him, “just... go to class, Oliver.”  
  
“Can't. Don't want to. They don't interest me... not the way you do.”  
  
“Well, sorry to disappoint, but I'm afraid SCU doesn't offer a course in 'The Secret Origin of Felicity Smoak.'”  
  
“Their loss,” he returned her snark with banter. “And, apparently, mine, too.”  
  
“There has to be something – some class, some major – that you would like.”  
  
“Afraid not,” he interrupted her.  
  
But Felicity continued on, undaunted. “And I am going to figure it out. But not today.” Just when Oliver was finally taking an interest in school... or, well, he was interested in Felicity taking an interest in him... even if it was just his collegiate career, she was preparing to end their conversation. “There's a guest lecturer tonight that I want to catch, and it starts in an hour and a half, and I still need to get ready and eat something before heading out. But we're not through with this conversation, Oliver.”  
  
It was probably for the best. Before he had left, Tommy had mentioned something about a coffee date with.... Well, Oliver wasn't sure who his best friend was spending his afternoon with, because, as soon as the words 'coffee date' left Tommy's mouth, Oliver had zoned out, because a coffee date? What was the point? Not even Oliver could score in the middle of a busy coffee shop on a weekday afternoon, and, if you couldn't have sex on a date, why make the effort to go on one? “Yeah. I need to go, too. Tommy will be home soon, so....”  
  
“Right.” Even Oliver, who was admittedly pretty much oblivious most of the time, couldn't miss the shortness, the coldness, that entered Felicity's tone with that one word. “Bye, Oliver.”  
  
Before he could even respond, Felicity hung up.   
  
Briefly pausing his game long enough to terminate their call on his end as well, Oliver then tossed his phone aside and returned to directing his squad and the friendly units he was in command of as they made their way through the underbelly of Mexico City. He'd worry about Felicity's... whatever the hell that was... later. At the moment, he was a little busy protecting the President of the United States from the damn Mexican rebel forces and recovering stolen weapon tech.   
  
If this wasn't International Relations, Oliver didn't know what was.

 


	5. September 29, 2006

_September 29, 2006_

“So, as a little boy, what did Oliver Queen want to be when he grew up?” For someone who talked as much as Felicity did – and oftentimes in circles, she was oddly adept at getting straight to the point... usually when Oliver didn't want her to do so. “I bet you were just as impossible as a child as you are now... only, then, at least it was precocious.”  
  
“And now,” he prompted her.  
  
“Now, it's just annoying.” Before he could distract her further, Felicity returned them to the topic at hand. Unfortunately. “But seriously. What did you dream of becoming as a child?”  
  
Despite the fact that she couldn't see him, Oliver shrugged as he responded, “an adult.”  
  
“I'm being serious here, Oliver.”  
  
“So am I.” However, despite his proclamation, he laughed as he said it.   
  
“Well, that's just sad.” It sounded like she was pouting, and that just made Oliver's amusement tick up that much more.  
  
“It's also the truth.” He and Tommy were supposed to leave for the club – a club – in a little while, but Oliver, already dressed and ready to go, decided to push his luck, flopping down on his bed and cozying down into the made covers and mound of pillows. Lifting one arm to curl it behind his head, he used the other to hold his phone up to his ear. Comfortable and suddenly in no hurry to leave, he relented to Felicity's whims by telling her what she wanted to hear. Well, it wasn't exactly what she wanted to hear, but he was at least entertaining the conversation she wanted to have. “When I was a kid, I remember wanting to drive fast cars, drink my father's liquor, and take out the Queen's Gambit. I thought my life would be complete once I turned 21. Obviously, this was before I realized my aptitude for breaking the rules.”  
  
“See, some would consider that a weakness, not a strength.” Pausing dramatically, Felicity added, “and, by some, I mean everyone.”  
  
“What about you,” he diverted her attention. “What did you want to be when you grew up?”  
  
Felicity sighed in delight at the memories his questions were conjuring up for her. “When I was seven, I wanted to be a computer.”  
  
“You mean... you wanted to work with computers?”  
  
“No,” she corrected him. “I wanted to _be_ a computer, but then I realized that technology would not be advanced enough to allow the human brain to be supplemented with artificial intelligence during my lifetime – not to mention the fact that there would be ethical objections, so I settled for wanting to build and create, to improve, other computers and their systems.”  
  
For several seconds, Oliver didn't respond; he just blinked. Because... Felicity not only boggled his mind, but, when she started to talk geek-speak, it, for reasons he did not understand, turned him on so much more than what was healthy. “This is what you were thinking about... when you were seven?”  
  
“Hey, at least I wasn't idolizing Dean Martin and dreaming of deflowering virgins!”  
  
Oliver wasn't sure who Dean Martin was, and virgins had never held much appeal for him. Felicity, on the other hand, did. Propping his phone up with his shoulder, he used his right hand to unfasten his belt, release the button of his suit pants, and drop his zipper. Sliding his touch beneath the now accessible band of his boxer-briefs, Oliver took himself in hand, sighing out loud in both temporary relief and anticipation.   
  
“Oliver?”  
  
“Yeah,” he coughed slightly. While he wasn't ashamed by his desire to have phone sex with Felicity, he knew that she wouldn't be comfortable with the idea. At least, not yet. “I'm still here.”  
  
“Okay, so your aspirations as a child were just as hedonistic as they are now, so that's not going to help us figure this out.”  
  
“Figure what out,” Oliver asked. Because he suddenly realized that he had no idea why Felicity was so curious about his ten year old self.   
  
“What you should be studying in school.”  
  
And they were back on _that_ topicagain, were they? Between all of the booze (and, okay, maybe there were a few pills tossed in the mix as well) he had pre-gamed earlier and the fact that his fingers were wrapped around and pumping his very hard and begging for release dick, Oliver hadn't realized the point of his conversation with Felicity until she spelled it out for him. He didn't mind, exactly. While he'd prefer to talk to her about just about anything else – her day, her classes, her job, what she was wearing beneath her pajamas, Oliver would take what he could get from Felicity. Plus, he had to admit that, while he didn't care about his own future – it wasn't like it wasn't already mapped out for him by his parents anyway, he liked that Felicity cared. Sometimes, it felt like she was the only person who did. Even Tommy was... oblivious.  
  
It wasn't so much that Oliver was unhappy. He slept in, he went out, he got drunk, and he got laid nearly every night. It was a good life. The best. It was the life he wanted, because the alternative was the life his father wanted for him, and Robert Queen's idea of living made Oliver feel like he was suffocating. But Oliver also realized that he was kind of bored with this empty, shallow existence that he had managed to perfect over the years. While he wasn't sure what he wanted instead, he knew that he would at least like more than the two choices presented to him. And Felicity. He definitely wanted Felicity.   
  
“Alright, let's look at this from a different perspective,” Felicity suggested. And her optimism was just enough to pull Oliver out of his thoughts and back into their conversation... though his attention was still very much split between jacking off and the woman whose voice was inspiring the hand-job he was giving himself. “What did you enjoy doing as a child?”  
  
“I don't know,” Oliver hedged. Quite honestly, he didn't understand what anything he had done as a kid had to do with his lack of direction as an adult. “I... liked to play. Like every kid.”  
  
“Yes but what,” Felicity encouraged, her voice slowing down and dragging out the words in emphasis. “When I was a child, I liked to play with computers. I took them apart, and then I would rebuild them. I spent a lot of time online, researching. Writing code. I liked to read. I was a very curious – albeit lonely but curious – child. Oh, and I also liked mathematics and probability, so I learned how to count cards.”  
  
He had to chuckle at that, because _of course_ she did. “I... liked boats,” Oliver began slowly, but, the more he thought about his childhood, the more he recalled, so he started talking faster and faster. “Cars, planes. I built a lot of models. And then there was Tommy. He's been my best friend for as long as I can remember. We spent practically all of our time together. We had this clubhouse in the woods that my parents never did know about.” Oliver experienced his first kiss in that clubhouse. Hell, he was pretty sure that Tommy lost his virginity out there. “We rode bikes in the summer, and we would snowboard in the winter. We'd ride my ATV's, play video games. And then there was Thea. I spent half my time trying to get away from her and half my time trying to make her laugh.”  
  
Just the thought of his little sister dampened Oliver's arousal, and he paused his strokes as he refocused upon the woman he was talking to on the phone. “And now,” Felicity asked him. “What do you like to do now... well, besides getting drunk, and high, and laid? What are you good at?”  
  
 _This_ he could work with. Slowly restarting the movements of his hand, Oliver gripped himself tightly and smirked. “Now? Now, instead of boats, I play with yachts. I drive the newest, fastest cars, and I use my family's private jet to fly off to Rio, Tahiti, and Dubai whenever the whim strikes me. I still ride my bike in the summer – except now it's a Ducati, and Tommy and I go to Aspen every winter. We still ride ATV's, and we still play video games.”   
  
Pausing in his answer, Oliver concentrated on his impending orgasm. His eyes slipped shut, and he briefly considered reaching for a tissue from his bedside table, but then he said screw it, not caring if he ended up with cum all over his right hand. He was going to have to shower again anyway – that was if he decided to go out at all now, so, to hell with it, he'd just wipe himself off on his pants. When his climax hit, though, he was imagining his release spurting onto Felicity's hand, Felicity's stomach, Felicity's breasts, Felicity's inner thighs instead, and he grunted in appreciation, in satisfaction.   
  
“As for what I'm good at,” Oliver segued, breathing heavy. Blissed out and grinning, he inhaled deeply and relaxed further into his now rumpled bed. “You'd already know that for yourself, Felicity, if you would have invited me in that last night when I came to see you.”   
  
“Oliver....” There was a warning to her tone, but there was also a note of intrigue and, if he dared to say so himself, desire as well.   
  
“I'm good at having fun. I know all the best restaurants, the best parties, the best places to shop. I'm amazing in bed... and out of it. I mix the greatest martini you'll ever have, and I wear a suit better than Tom Ford himself. I'm....”  
  
“ … You're James Bond,” Felicity breathed out, cutting Oliver off. “Or, at least, you should be.” Before he could respond, she started speaking extremely fast. “You should move to London, go to spy school... whatever exactly that is, and then get a job with MI6. And Bond's blonde now, so this is totally possible, and you....”  
  
“Oliver, buddy, come on!” Tommy's voice – and his pounding upon Oliver's locked bedroom door – shattered the haze of pleasure Oliver had found himself drifting in, and around, and under... not to mention the fact that Felicity had suddenly fallen suspiciously quiet. He scowled across the room, but he made no move to answer or let Tommy inside. “Would you stop preening already? We were supposed to meet Laurel twenty minutes ago.”  
  
A now subdued and reserved Felicity asked, “so, you and Laurel? On again, huh?”  
  
“No, it's not... we're not.... It's complicated,” Oliver finally settled upon as his reply. It was both the truth and a lie, because, while Oliver considered his relationship with Laurel to be less than straightforward, Laurel didn't, and Felicity wouldn't either. Yes, Oliver was once more sleeping with his ex, or current, or whatever Laurel was to him, and, yes, when he had to go to events with his parents, Laurel was the girl on his arm, but they certainly weren't exclusive – at least, not on his part... even if Laurel wasn't aware of that distinction, and Oliver was just with her, because... well, why not? She was there, and she was willing, and he loved her. In his own way. Sort of. Whatever. The last thing he wanted to think about – let alone discuss with Felicity – was his relationship with another woman.   
  
Bringing him back to the moment, his best friend rattled the doorknob to Oliver's room, evidently seeking admittance even if uninvited. “Go away, Tommy!”  
  
“But Laurel....”  
  
“Can just fucking wait,” he exploded, sitting up and glaring towards the offensive interruption. “And so can you, for that matter. Or, better yet,” Oliver offered as a suggestion, “why don't you go without me. I'll get there when I damn well feel like it.” Which, at this rate, might be never, because Oliver really was not in the mood for another night of being Tommy's wingman, and Laurel's boyfriend, and all of Starling's favorite debauched playboy.   
  
All Tommy said in response was a simple, “fine,” before Oliver could hear his louder than usual steps – louder because of agitation, and hurt, and suspicion – walk away.   
  
“That was... harsh.”  
  
“But necessary,” Oliver replied to Felicity's comment. She wasn't exactly criticizing him, but he could hear that she was taken aback by his reaction towards his best friend. “Now, where were we...?” When she didn't answer, Oliver laid back down – his left arm once more curling behind his head, his sticky right taking hold of his phone (he'd just buy a new one tomorrow) so as to relieve the stiffness in his neck. “Oh, that's right. You were inspiring me with dreams for my future.”  
  
“Don't mock me, Oliver Jonas Queen.”  
  
He chuckled at the chastisement before reassuring, “don't worry, I'm not. You have genuinely given me direction tonight, Felicity _Elizabeth?_ Smoak.” While Felicity knew more about him than Oliver was comfortable with thanks to the internet – including his middle name, he could not say the same about the details of her life.   
  
“Not even close,” she laughed at him. Or, more precisely, she laughed at his guess. “Even my mother wouldn't have been cruel enough to saddle a child with two four syllable names.” He was going to ask her if he was getting any warmer with his guesses, but she reverted the topic before he could. “Now, what's this direction you're talking about? Please, don't tell me that you now believe _you_ could be a spy?”  
  
“But I thought you said I could be anything, do anyone, if I just put my mind to it?”  
  
Oliver couldn't see her. He really wished he could. It was possible – the idea of _video_ phone sex with Felicity enough to make Oliver actually research something, but she had refused his suggestion of Skype. However, it didn't take a video feed to tell Oliver that Felicity was probably tilting her head to the side in that way of hers and rolling her eyes at him. “I never said any such thing, Oliver.”  
  
“You just told me I should be James Bond....” He could hear her already starting to argue with him, but he talked over top of her for once. “ … Which I'm thinking will make for an excellent Halloween costume. Hell, I might just make it my entire theme this year. The few men who actually get invited can come as spies, and all the women as the ones who love them.”  
  
“Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no,” Felicity denied. And Oliver grinned at her outright refusal. “I don't think so. Do not put this on me – reducing women to mere... things with sexual innuendos for names.”  
  
He ignored her protests. “Now, we just need to figure out which Bond Girl you should be.”  
  
“Never going to happen, Oliver!”  
  
“I'm thinking... Honey Ryder.”  
  
“At least you didn't say Pussy Galore,” she complained underneath her breath. But he still heard her. “Or Xenia Onatopp, though she was a brunette. So, too, was Holly Goodhead, but that name sounds right up Oliver Queen's sweeping, paved driveway, because we all know Oliver Queen doesn't hang out in alleys. Unless he's peeing on cops.”  
  
“Are you finished,” he questioned, failing at hiding his amusement. Not only was Oliver impressed with Felicity's extensive knowledge of 007 movies, but he'd never turn down a conversation with Felicity revolving around sexual favors and positions. “I chose Honey Ryder, because she was _the_ original Bond Girl, and the image of you in a white bikini and a knife... and only a white bikini and a knife...? Well, I can definitely use that as inspiration.”  
  
“Inspiration for what?”  
  
Deciding to throw caution to the wind, Oliver answered honestly. “For round two.” He could hear her choking in surprise and embarrassment on the other end of the line while she struggled to make her body move properly in order to hang up on him. Before she could do that, however, Oliver made sure to get in one last, parting remark. “I'll send you a picture this time.”  
  
“Don't you dare,” Felicity was yelling at him before he could even smirk. “Topless only, Oliver. Topless only. We agreed months ago. And, once you put something like... _that_... out there, you can never get it back. It will _always_ belong to the cyber world.”  
  
“And you make the cyber world your bitch on a daily basis, so, really,” Oliver reasoned, teasing her further. “You would own it. You would own me – touching myself, pumping myself, getting myself off while thinking about....”  
  
Before he could finish that last thought, that last threat, that last promise, Oliver was met with the dial tone. Grinning, he sat up, and then he stood up, stripping his clothes with one hand as he moved towards his en-suite’s shower, holding his once more heavy and swollen with need, pre-cum leaking dick with the other.

 


	6. November 1, 2006

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Visuals](https://www.pinterest.com/oycharlynnrose/a-picture-is-worth-a-thousand-words-fic-visuals/). :-) Enjoy!

_November 1, 2006_

“Hmm... yeah?”  
  
Felicity's voice was deeper, and it had an edge when she was asleep – tired, and exhausted, and vulnerable in her relaxed state, and Oliver would have been surprised by how much he appreciated the sound of it... if he didn't like everything about Felicity Smoak. “Felicity, open your door.”  
  
“Don't wanna,” she mumbled, whined.   
  
Oliver could then hear the tell-tale sounds of a body turning over, no doubt burrowing even deeper into the blankets. If he had to bet, he'd wager that she was pouting, too. “Come on, Felicity,” he cajoled. “It's a surprise. Everyone loves surprises.”  
  
All he received in response was a huff of indignation. Straining, Oliver listened for further movement – some indication that Felicity was going to get up and not just continue to ignore him. Well, if that's the way she wanted to play this, Oliver was game. Unlike her, he was wide-awake and perhaps just as or even more determined to get his way. He hadn't skipped out on his own Halloween party and flown all the way across the country just to....  
  
Before he could finish his thought, Oliver was startled slightly when the very door he had been asking to be opened was whipped back, revealing a less than pleased to see him Felicity Smoak. Eyes narrowed in feigned perturbation and in actual adjustment to the bright lights of the hallway, Felicity grumbled, “I hate surprises. People claim that they're a selfless gesture, but they're really designed to make those people feel better about themselves, because 'look at what I did for you, and I went to all this extra trouble to surprise you.' Bullshit.”  
  
By the time she was finished, Oliver realized that his mouth was hanging open. Grumpy Felicity was something else... and hot as hell. Offering her his most suave smile, Oliver glided by her, ignoring her complaints about rude people who didn't wait for invitations to enter, but she shut the door behind him and didn't attempt to kick him out. Taking that as the victory it was, Oliver slid off his suit jacket, released his cufflinks at his wrist, and popped the top few buttons on his neck as well. Once he was comfortable, he tossed his jacket somewhere towards Felicity's desk chair, not really caring where it landed but knowing that he wanted it gone. Feeling ready to face her once again, he spun around on his heels only to find a now wide-awake Felicity ready for battle. Oliver gulped.   
  
“What are you doing here, Oliver?” Felicity kept her voice soft, her eyes flickering over just once to make sure that her roommate was still asleep and completely oblivious to their late-night, early-morning, uninvited guest.   
  
He smirked, sauntered several steps towards her, and held his arms out in invitation. “I wanted to see you.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I want to inform one of my professors that his toupee looks like a dead muskrat has curled up on top of his head, but that doesn't mean that I actually tell him that.” Before Oliver could even think of a comment, Felicity continued, “we don't always get everything we want, Oliver.”  
  
Realization started to dawn. “Are you... mad at me, that I'm here?”  
  
“Anger is such a simple emotion, Oliver, and what I'm feeling right now is very complex.”  
  
Well, that certainly wasn't the refutation that he had been looking for, let alone a reassurance that his surprise presence was a welcome one. He had been hoping for a hug, especially since he already knew that Felicity didn't sleep in a bra, but, instead, he was getting pissy glares, the cold shoulder, and confusing non-answers. When he had left Starling City, his plan had been so simple, and, now that it was falling apart, Oliver felt his own ire rise. Latching onto the irritation, he stopped trying to bring Felicity around and went on the offensive. “If anyone should be annoyed right now, it's me.”  
  
Her brows furrowed. “What? Why?”  
  
Oliver spun away from her and paced along the length of her bed. After pushing a hand through his tousled hair, he looked up to meet Felicity's crinkled with uncertainty face. It was adorable and a rare sight, because Felicity seemed to _always_ know everything, and usually it would have been enough to make Oliver smile and forget whatever was bothering him, but he was disappointed by her reaction to his visit, and it was easier to attack her than show his own weaknesses. “Because I asked you to spend Halloween with me, but you said you couldn't – that you had school, and work, and responsibilities. But then I show up here, and you're hungover, so now I realize that not only did you lie to me, but you also spent the night with someone else and didn't have the guts to tell me the truth.”  
  
“Really? You really want to go there, Oliver?” Tossing aside the robe that had been wrapped around her petite frame, Felicity squared off against him, fisting her small hands on her hips. “Does Laurel know that you're here?”  
  
“She has nothing to do with this,” he fired back. Distantly, Oliver realized that their voices were getting too loud if they wanted to remain anonymous, but, frankly, he didn't care if all of MIT knew that he was in Felicity Smoak's dorm room at 3:47 AM the morning after Halloween. “And don't try to turn this around on me to avoid my questions, Felicity.”  
  
“First of all, I don't have to answer to anyone – least of all you, because I'm not the one who is in a long-term relationship, and, whether you acknowledge your... whatever you have with Laurel as such, she does. So, yes, she is a part of this, and, by you continuing to deny it, you just make me feel like the dirty little secret on the side.” His mouth opened to respond to at least some of what Felicity had just said, but she held up a hand, requesting his continued silence. “Secondly, let the record show that I am _only_ addressing your woefully inaccurate assumptions, because I'm cold, and my belly hurts, and I really just want to go to bed.” Oliver's eyes lit up at that. “I meant back to bed. Alone. Because that's where I was – without you – before I was so rudely interrupted by you.”  
  
“And what am I supposed to do,” he asked her, taking several steps forward until they were practically standing toe-to-toe. Folding his arms across his chest, Oliver ticked his head towards Felicity's roommate. He had no idea who the girl – he assumed it was a girl; it better be a girl – was. “Am I just supposed to crawl in with your friend over there for the rest of the night?”  
  
“We are not friends; we are cohabitants who survive each other thanks to a very carefully constructed schedule that maximizes avoidance. Approach at your own risk.” With a cheeky grin, Felicity added, “as for where you're going to sleep, maybe you should have thought about that before spontaneously showing up outside my door on the same night that I'm pretty sure I overdosed on chocolate, coffee, Sweettarts, toothpaste, and blood.”  
  
Oliver's brain wasn't quite tracking. “So, then, you didn't go out?”  
  
“For, like, the ninety-millionth time, Oliver,” Felicity sighed in exasperation. “I'm a scholarship student. I'm not going to risk my future just for some cheap booze and some even cheaper company at some frat's Halloween party.”  
  
He rolled his eyes at her exaggeration. “We've only talked about your scholarships twice now – three times at the most.” Before she could say anything else, he kept talking. “And I take offense to that. I belong to a fraternity.”  
  
Felicity snorted. “Of course you do.”  
  
Oliver ignored her. “Or, at least, I used to. I'll have to see if Raisa paid my dues... or if there's even a charter at SCU. Anyway,” he shook aside the thought, because, really, he could care less about some frat; Oliver just liked teasing Felicity. “I never served cheap alcohol.”  
  
“You're one in 6.568 billion, Queen. Well, you and your doppelganger.”  
  
“My what?”  
  
“Ugh,” Felicity groaned, walking around him and crawling on top of her bed. As she moved around on her knees, adjusting her covers, she told him, “I don't have the constitution for this tonight.”  
  
Maybe her _constitution_ wasn't up for their usual banter, but her ass certainly was. Oliver's eyes tracked it greedily without blinking. Even in a simple pair of cotton pajama pants, Felicity had a great ass. “Nice PJ's.”  
  
“Thanks,” she said in response... and without any irony or sarcasm. “I thought they were appropriate.”  
  
He moved so that he was standing directly beside her bed, his leg leaning against her nightstand. Lifting a single, solitary finger, Oliver reached out and traced the design of her pants along her right hip. “All the best gifts come in tiny packages.”  
  
At first, Felicity froze when he touched her, but she quickly recovered, pulling away and then hiding from him as soon as she was burrowed underneath her blankets. “They're not presents, Oliver; they're little pieces of candy.”  
  
“You still have to unwrap them first before you can enjoy them,” he pointed out.  
  
Felicity's eyes went wide, her mouth popped open into an 'o', but, anymore than that, she failed to react to his blatant come-on. “They're my go-to pajama pants for all the minor holidays – the ones where small trinkets... like candy... are the go-to treats: Halloween, Valentine's Day, Mardi Gras?”  
  
Oliver chuckled appreciatively, but he decided that he'd been put off long enough. So, fingering her top comforter and refusing to allow her to look away, he smoothly asked, “so, what exactly does a guy have to do to get invited to a sleepover. In your bed. With you?”  
  
Felicity flushed, then bit her lip. “Well,” she hedged, but Oliver could tell that it was a stalling tactic as she tried to frantically come up with something that was both playful yet still pointedly a refusal as well. “A good start would be for said guy to go down to records once again, only, this time, instead of flirting with the student worker to get my personal information, he'd use his charm to get me a single room at the cost of a double.”  
  
Oliver feigned shock. “Look at you, Miss-I'm-on-Scholarship-So-I-Follow-All-the-Rules-Smoak, blackmailing me into doing her illegal dirty work.”  
  
Felicity immediately defended herself. “No matter how unjust it sometimes can be, your flirting is not breaking the law, Oliver. At worst, you'd be... stretching it, and stretching is good for you. Besides, it's about time that smile of yours was used to benefit someone other than yourself for once.”  
  
“Trust me when I say that _everyone_... _not just me_... benefits when I smile.”  
  
She pretended to gag. “Ew. Gross.” Oliver just chuckled in response. “Hey, bucko,” Felicity garnered his attention once more. Not that it was ever far from her... even when he was, physically-speaking. “This face,” and she pointed to her own using a circular motion to indicate the entire canvas. “Is my 'about-to-hack' face, not my 'please-disgust-me-with-your-bragging-tales-of-douchebaggery,' face okay? My stomach is not very happy with me right now, and, unfortunately, it is not all hollow this eve.”  
  
Felicity had mentioned earlier that she wasn't feeling well, but Oliver had glossed over it in his relief of knowing that she hadn't gone out with someone else that evening. But, now, he was dutifully concerned, because, from what he knew about Felicity, she wasn't someone to complain unnecessarily. If she said she was sick... even if worded in a very flippant way, then, despite her words, that wasn't a laughing matter. Becoming worried, he asked, “do you need me to run out and pick you up anything? I'm sure there has to be some 24 hour drug store around here somewhere. Or maybe you should go to health services, the hospital?”  
  
Felicity's face softened, and she offered him a small smile. “I'll be fine. I just... over did it with the revelry. Or maybe it was the combination of revelries that I chose.” Then she shrugged.  
  
Making a decision, he stood up straight and started to strip. “Alright, that's it. Scoot over.”  
  
A flabbergasted Felicity gaped at him. “What?”  
  
“I said scoot over.”  
  
“Yeah, I heard you, but.... What are you doing, Oliver?”  
  
His shoes went first, Oliver kicking them off one at a time and not bothering to untie them. They were pinching anyway, so he really didn't care where they ended up. Next came his socks which he toed off while unbuttoning the remaining buttons on his dress shirt. It was still fluttering to the floor when he reached for his belt, undoing his pants with the ease of someone who knew not to dawdle when stripping lest any delay change his latest conquest's mind. “I'm getting ready for bed.”  
  
“Oliver, I just told you that I could ralph at any moment, and you want to sleep with me?” In a matter of seconds, Felicity's face flamed and then blanched in embarrassment. And then she was in a rush to correct herself, talking extremely quickly, her voice tight and high with panic. “Obviously, not _sleep_ -sleep with me. Just sleep. As in eyes closed... which I guess some people do when they _sleep-_ sleep as well, but where's the fun in that? Not that any of this is relevant to this discussion, because we will not be having sex.”  
  
“We could,” Oliver offered. He went for nonchalant, but he wasn't sure if Felicity bought it. He sure as hell didn't, because there was nothing casual about his attraction towards his Red Pen Girl. “It would make you feel better.”  
  
There was a beat of suspended anticipation before Felicity's snort made it crash down on top of Oliver. So, no sex then. “Your bad medicine is the _last_ thing I need right now.” Despite her less than gentle decline of his oh-so-gracious offer, Felicity still, finally, made room for him in her twin-sized bed.  
  
As Oliver lifted the covers and climbed beneath, he settled on his side facing her, confessing, “Tommy loves that song. Hell, he loves Bon Jovi. We spent a year at Princeton, and he now thinks that makes him a New Jersey native. When he's really drunk, he tries to talk with the accent. It's hilarious.”  
  
Felicity turned over so that she was facing him as well. “Get him to sing with it, too, and then record him. You'll have blackmail material for life.”  
  
Risking having to watch her pull away from him – again, Oliver leaned forward and rubbed his nose against Felicity's. “You are devilishly brilliant, Miss Smoak.”  
  
But she just smiled and accepted his compliment. “I come by it naturally.” Although he was curious as to what she meant by that, Oliver never got a chance to ask her, because the light mood was shattered when Felicity asked, “what are you doing here, Oliver?” He could tell that she wasn't frustrated with his presence any longer, but she still expected answers.   
  
“I wanted to see you. So, I did. Why,” and he knew that he was fishing to have his ego stroked, but Oliver didn't care; he needed the reassurance, so he went with it anyway... even if it was a blatant sign of mock insecurity. “Didn't you want to see me?”  
  
“Of course I did, Oliver. I always want to see you, but we live 3,000 miles apart. That's not a distance you randomly decide to travel on a whim.”  
  
“I thought women found spontaneity to be romantic?”  
  
“Try foolish, presumptive, flighty.” Well, that certainly wasn't what he wanted to hear. On the other hand, at least she didn't bring up Laurel. Again. “Speaking of which, _how_ did you get here?”  
  
“I flew.” Even laying down, Felicity managed to tilt her head at him in exasperation. It was far too much of a turn on to be healthy. “On a plane.” This time, she added a pointed glare. “Well, actually it's a private jet. The company one.”  
  
“Shouldn't it be used for QC business only? And you just took it?”  
  
Oliver laughed softly. “Its not like I flew it myself, Felicity. I called the pilot.”  
  
“Well, that's good, considering you're higher than a jet right now.”  
  
“Really? Still?”  
  
“Your pupils are so large that I can't see your irises, and, yeah, it's dark in here, but it's not _that_ dark.”  
  
“Huh,” and Oliver accompanied the non-committal sound with a loose, indifferent shrug. “I hadn't noticed. I figured it would have worn off by now. Oh well.”  
  
With a frown, she asked, “ _you're_ not going to get sick on _me_ , are you?”  
  
“Please, Felicity, you're talking to a professional right now. Only amateurs get sick.”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” she said softly, lifting a distracted hand to sweep the fallen hair off his face. “That's what has me worried.” Oliver wasn't sure how to take her comment, but he didn't have to think about it for long, because Felicity thankfully changed the topic. “So, tell me about your party, Bond. James Bond.”  
  
Talking about the party was better than seeing that flicker of fear in Felicity's gaze... but not by much. “It was a good idea,” he complimented her, because, after all, she was the inspiration behind the entire theme. “But I just... I don't know.”  
  
“You didn't have fun?”  
  
At the same time, this was the last thing Oliver wanted to talk about yet probably the reason why, when he could have gone anywhere, he ran to Felicity. “Not really. I go out almost every night, because it's what I do. It's who I am. And it used to be fun, right? I mean, it had to be, because why else would I do it, but I just find it all... exhausting at this point. In order to even leave the apartment, I have to pre-game so much that I'm already drunk, or high, or both before I even get to the club. And then I just spend the rest of the night buying other people drinks and listening to and telling the same stories over, and over, and over again.” Sighing, he admitted out loud for the first time what he had been thinking for months. “I'm... bored.”  
  
“And you sound pretty disillusioned, too,” Felicity commented thoughtfully. He couldn't argue with her. “What's Tommy say about all this?”  
  
“Tommy's... Tommy.” Oliver sighed, lifting his left hand to scrub it tiredly up and down his face. He yawned. “He has no idea.”  
  
“You haven't talked to him about it?”  
  
“We don't.... That's not how our friendship works. We party together, we live together, we're each other's wingman, but we don't really talk, especially not about our feelings.”  
  
“Boys,” Felicity grumbled, but it wasn't said in judgement or bitterness.  
  
“Besides, in order to talk to Tommy, he'd actually have to be around. Ever since we moved back to Starling, it's like he's too busy for me all of a sudden.” At the interested wrinkles that marred Felicity's forehead and pulled down her distractingly plump and inviting mouth, Oliver continued, “he leaves in the morning, and he's gone all day. I hear him mention coffee shops and lunches with friends, but not even Tommy can eat enough to justify being gone from sun-up until it's time to go out every night.”  
  
“I know it's a novel concept,” Felicity razzed him. “But maybe he's going to class.”  
  
That made absolutely no sense. “But why?”  
  
All he received as an answer was a toothy grin, an, “oh, Oliver,” and a friendly pat to the face.  
  
Without another word, Felicity rolled over, and Oliver silently sighed in relief, for he was off the hook. She had accepted his reason for being there, and she wasn't going to push him towards any more moments of self-realization. At least, not until morning. However, what he didn't like about her turning away from him like that was that it put far too much distance between them, which was a feat unto itself, for they were sharing a twin-sized bed. Not allowing Felicity the physical reprieve – maybe they weren't sleeping together, but he was at least going to cop a feel or two, Oliver wrapped an arm around her tiny waist and tugged her backwards, situating them so that he was cocooned around her all the way from their toes to their shoulders. Then, slipping his right arm underneath Felicity's neck, he curled his forearm down so that it was laying against her body and dipped his head down to nuzzle her throat. For several moments, Felicity held herself rigid. Without even looking at her face, Oliver could tell that she was silently debating their sleeping position – if she should allow it, but then he felt her sigh, and then relax, and she seemed to melt against him.   
  
“This is nice,” he murmured, his words stirring the wispy tendrils of hair that had come loose from her messy bun. Despite the heat from their bodies and the copious amount of blankets piled on top of them, Felicity shivered. Oliver grinned in triumph. “You know, I've never done this with a girl before: just... shared a bed, platonically.” Maybe they hadn't had sex – _yet_ , and maybe Felicity was still completely dressed, but it was anything _but_ platonic between them.   
  
Just when he thought Felicity wasn't going to respond, she giggled wickedly. “So, you're saying that I popped your cuddles without coitus cherry?”  
  
He joined her in the laughter. “I guess so.” Spreading wide the hand that was resting against her stomach, Oliver started to gently massage Felicity through the fabric of her t-shirt with the pads of his fingers. “Anytime you want me to return the favor, just ask.”  
  
“I hate to break it to you, Oliver, but I am not a virgin, and you are not the first guy I've ever shared a bed with – platonically or otherwise.”  
  
That was both reassuring and disappointing all in the same breath. Instead of focusing on what her pronouncement made him feel, Oliver completely changed the topic, asking, “how'd you cut yourself earlier?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“The blood?”  
  
“Oh,” Felicity sang out in realization, chuckling. “That wasn't mine; it was Dexter's.”  
  
“Who. Is. Dexter?” And what kind of pretentious, prick-name was that? Dexter.  
  
Totally blasé, Felicity answered, “the serial killer.”  
  
“What?!”  
  
“Would you stop growling in my ear,” Felicity complained, wiggling against him. The movement was because she was annoyed, but it certainly didn't inspire the same reaction in Oliver. Quite the contrary, in fact. “And lower your voice already. Do you really want to wake Peter?”  
  
He was so freaking confused. “Who's Peter?”  
  
“My roommate.”  
  
“Your roommate is named Peter?” Since when did MIT have co-ed dorm rooms? And Oliver was pretty sure that Felicity had mentioned that her roommate was a girl. At least, she had hinted at it. And, if not, then that was something Felicity should have told him. He had a right to know that his Red Pen Girl slept a mere twelve feet away from another man's....  
  
“No, she's not, but that's what I call her. Secretly.”  
  
“What? Why?”  
  
“Because I don't like to call other women bitches, but my roommate is insufferable, so I have to call her something. Just something less sexist. So, I call her Peter... because, well, she is one.”  
  
Oh, god. This woman....  
  
Grinning to himself, Oliver reassured her, “alright, I'll keep my voice down, but you still need to explain who this Dexter guy is.”  
  
Felicity groaned in feigned aggravation. “The TV show, Oliver.”  
  
“Oh. Right.” He had heard of that, actually. “It's on HBO?”  
  
“No, Showtime, but, really, they're the same thing. So, anyway, I decided....”  
  
“Wait,” Oliver interrupted her. “You get Showtime?” In a dorm room?  
  
“No, but you do, so I created an online account for you and logged myself in.”  
  
“You stole my cable,” he asked in amused disbelief.  
  
He felt Felicity flinch in his arms. Oliver smirked at her reaction. “I like to think of it as you sharing. Friends share, Oliver. It's just what they do.”  
  
“Usually friends are aware of the fact that they're sharing cable, however.”  
  
“You're just... that generous, Oliver. You share even when you don't realize it. You can't help yourself.”  
  
When it came to his Red Pen Girl, he really couldn't.   
  
In response, Oliver slipped his hand underneath her t-shirt and kept kneading the muscles of her tender stomach. Felicity looked down in what he liked to think of as silent inquiry and not censure at his actions. Instead of addressing her movement, he prompted, “so, you watched _Dexter_?”  
  
“Yeah. I've been hearing a lot of good things about it, so I wanted to catch up, and I figured, since it was Halloween and all, what's scarier than sympathizing and even identifying with a psychopath? But there was a lot of blood, and needles, and pointy... things, which, FYI, does not a good combination make with my Halloween traditions.”  
  
“The chocolate, coffee, Sweettarts, and toothpaste,” he recalled from before.  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“I get the candy, but what's up with the coffee and the toothpaste?”  
  
“I had five episodes to catch up on, Oliver,” she reprimanded him... as if the answer was obvious. “I needed the coffee to stay awake. The show might be entertaining... if not a little disgusting, but I don't get enough sleep as it is. So, coffee. Yeah.” And now here he was, waking her up in the middle of the night and keeping her awake simply because of his own insecurities, because he missed her, because, when he realized that he didn't want to be at his own party, the only place he did want to be was with Felicity. “As for the toothpaste, I felt guilty. About all the sugar. So, I kept pausing the show and swearing off any more candy to brush my teeth.”  
  
“Well, then, I guess it's convenient that you have a random sink in your dorm room.  
  
“Welcome to East Campus,” Felicity snarked. “I'd live someplace a little less... quirky, but there are only two residence halls open year-round, and, believe it or not, this is the better option.” Before he could comment, before Oliver could suggest something that he already knew Felicity would reject, she continued on, “but, anyway... I'd brush my teeth, then something really... splatter-y would happen, and I'd find myself double-fisting the refreshments once again. Really, it was a very ugly, very vicious cycle. You don't want to know more. Trust me.”  
  
“I do trust you, Felicity.” At the sincerity – and weight – behind his words, any last trace of humor between them fled. Dropping a kiss behind her ear, Oliver held Felicity just that much tighter as he said, “go to sleep.” But he needed to add some levity to the moment. Everything was suddenly too real, too... present, and he wasn't ready for or comfortable with that level of emotional honesty. “After all, we have class together in the morning.”  
  
Oliver Queen had no interest in his own education, but he really liked going to his Red Pen Girl's classes.

 


	7. November 23, 2006

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a horrible, flaky, unreliable fanfic author. I know. And I won't insult you by offering a bunch of excuses, because the bottom line is that, if I wanted to write, I'd write, and, while this story is complete (and has been for a while now on my end), I was burning through my reserves and not writing. If I don't write, I don't post, and I wasn't feeling very inspired. I'm trying to fix this, though. I'm forcing myself to write. This week alone, I've penned three chapters so far. Hopefully, this productivity and inspiration will continue, because, if so, so, too, will the updates. Thanks for the patience, everyone, and I hope this chapter was worth the wait.
> 
> ~Charlynn~

_November 23, 2006_

He had to get out, he had to run, he had to escape.  
  
Oliver felt like he couldn't breathe. That wasn't a new phenomena when it came to Queen family dinners; they often resulted in sucking all of the oxygen out of the room, but today was supposed to be different. And maybe that's what made it so much worse, because Oliver wasn't expecting to feel so trapped with just his father, mother, sister, and best friend on Thanksgiving. He should have known better, though.  
  
Queen family dinners were rarely what their name said they should be. Because Queen Consolidated was a family business, his father and mother often used family dinners as a way to show potential investors and business partners the principles behind the letterhead they were prepared to sink their money into. On those few occasions when it really was just the four of them alone in their stiff and formal dining room, those meals turned into lectures on how Oliver needed to behave – what to say, how to act, where to spend his time, who he should spend his time with – in order to better reflect the family reputation. They weren't so much scoldings... as one would expect given his penchant for living down to everyone's worst expectations. Rather, they were warnings and threats. Instead of 'don't be such a slut, Oliver,' his parents chided him against risking a future tied down to the wrong sort of girl. When he was arrested outside of a seedy bar in the wrong part of town, his parents lamented, not the black mark against his record or that he may have a more serious problem than his inability to hold his liquor, but what would their rich and powerful friends think of their son's poor taste and lack of impulse control?  
  
His saving grace was usually the fact that, no matter what he did, Tommy was right there beside him, egging him on and smiling for the camera. So, when Tommy accompanied Oliver to family dinners, he had someone there to share the spotlight with him, and, though sometimes it felt like Robert and Moira Queen were more Tommy's parents than Malcolm Merlyn ever was, they drew the line at reprimanding Oliver's best friend... or even Oliver himself when Tommy was present. Their latest misdeeds would be mentioned but always under a more favorable light, Moira reminding his father that their lives were a perpetual press release, that there wasn't anything they couldn't spin in their favor; and Robert would laugh at Tommy's recollections of their exploits, exclaiming that 'boys would be boys.' There was just something about Tommy – maybe it was the fact that, no matter how many years it had been since his mother had been murdered, Tommy's lost little boy look never quite managed to fade away; or perhaps it was the streak of desperation to belong, to be a part of something, to be loved that one could see always lingering in Tommy's dark gaze that tempered Oliver's parents and made them more forgiving. Whatever the reason, Oliver wasn't ashamed to admit that, on occasion, he had taken advantage of their soft spot for his best friend, and he had planned to do so yet again that Thanksgiving... only, for the first time in his life, his plan had failed him.  
  
Tommy had failed him.  
  
Since the moment they had walked through the front door, Oliver had been blindsided by the one person he thought he knew better than anyone else in the world. Because Tommy had practically been raised beside Oliver in the Queen mansion, he treated the place as a second home, not the home in which, when he visited, he was a guest. Yet, for reasons beyond Oliver, Tommy had brought hostess gifts for Oliver's family: a box of Cuban cigars for Oliver's father – cigars they were now planning on sharing together after Thanksgiving dinner with no invitation being passed along for Oliver to join them, some delicate looking flowers his mother practically cooed over (and the formidable Moira Queen _did not_ coo), and a ridiculously expensive, designer scarf for Thea who, as far as Oliver was concerned, was supposed to be still playing with dolls and eating her meals in the kitchen at the little kids' table. But the betrayal didn't end there. From that point on, the afternoon only got worse for Oliver.  
  
As soon as they sat down to eat, Robert launched into what seemed to be his favorite topic now that he had his son back under his thumb somewhat in Starling City: college. He asked about classes, about potential internships, and professional connections they were making through their studies. Where once Tommy had been just as disinterested in those things as Oliver still was, he was now sitting there and gushing – actually _gushing_ – about his professors, and his plans, and his grades. He knew about stock prices and corporate take-overs; he spoke with legitimate knowledge and sound opinion about politics and current affairs. And Oliver's parents lapped it all up like cream, praising Tommy in one breath and then turning around and criticizing Oliver in comparison with the next.   
  
It wasn't so much his parents' disapproval that bothered Oliver. Hell, he didn't even begrudge Tommy his newfound direction. Oliver knew that his life was a mess, that he was a mess, but he also didn't see why that was such a big deal. As long as no one got hurt by his antics, so what if he drank too much and slept around? He was only 21. His parents already had his entire life mapped out for him. When it became necessary, he'd get his shit together, but, until then, why was it so wrong not to know what he wanted? He wasn't the most socially-aware guy in the world, but even Oliver knew that he wasn't the only college student who didn't have his life all figured out. And, until that very day, he had believed his best friend to be just as confused and lost as he was, and that's what hurt – the fact that, for what was the first time, he felt alone.  
  
But, yet, that wasn't exactly true either, because, maybe he had lost Tommy, but he still had Felicity. Oh, on the outside, his Red Pen Girl seemed to have her life in order well enough. And, yes, she at least knew what she wanted to do career-wise upon graduation. But everything else? When it came to friendship, and romance, and her personal life – who she was as a woman and who she would be someday as a friend, a lover, a wife, and a mother, Felicity was just as lost as he was, and, while she didn't necessarily talk about it – _yet_ , there was something broken inside of her, too, something that stung deeply and both gave her direction and held her back at the same time. They were complete opposites, he and Felicity, when it came to everything but that which mattered the most.   
  
With the thought of her – the sound of her voice, the peel of her laughter, the memory of her chest rising and falling in tandem with his own as she slept beside him, Oliver felt the air rush back into his lungs. His vision cleared. Standing up from the table, he tossed his napkin aside and strolled out of the room, uncaring that he had just interrupted his family's Thanksgiving meal and unconcerned with offering any excuses or explanations for his sudden departure or rudeness. Instead, all that mattered was talking to Felicity.   
  
He took the steps upstairs to his room two at a time. Distantly, he could hear his father yelling his name, demanding that he come back to the table, apologize to his mother, while the rest of his family talked softly amongst themselves about his unprecedented behavior. Tommy made some offhand remark about how Oliver had been acting strange for months now, Thea teased that maybe he was on his man-period, and Oliver's mother chastised his sister, though there was humor underlying her censoring words. But Oliver ignored them all. He didn't slow his pace until he was in his childhood bedroom, safely ensconced behind the locked door. With a sigh of relief, he collapsed down upon the made bed.  
  
Although his body felt flushed from all the wine he had consumed during their meal – the food had tasted like sawdust in his mouth, but, ever since he had met Felicity, Oliver had developed quite a fondness for red wine, it wasn't enough. He was wound tight with frustration, with aggression, and the very last thing he wanted to do was take his feelings out on Felicity. So, blindly reaching for his nightstand, Oliver removed the drawer entirely from its track, lifting the open wooden box up onto the mattress with him and flipping it around so that he could access the back. There, taped like he knew it would be, was an emergency stash of grass, some rolling papers, and a lighter. Raisa was thorough and beyond competent at her job, but Oliver had been left to spend far too much time with his family's housekeeper while growing up not to have long since memorized her habits. She'd clean inside of drawers – vacuuming and wiping them out, but she never completely removed them. Ten minutes later – the once more forgotten drawer cast aside and Oliver not even bothering to open a window, he finally felt relaxed enough to dial the only number he hoped to see flashing on his phone's screen enough to have memorized.   
  
“Happy Day of Native American Oppression, Oliver!” Oliver couldn't even chuckle before Felicity was already rushing forward to correct herself. “Or is it now PC to say American Indian? I know, in grade school, they always told us it was polite to say Native Americans. Christopher Columbus might have had mad skills at getting King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella to fork over Spain's dineros, but cartography wasn't his forte, because Indians? Not quite from India. But, now, I think it's actually acceptable to use the term American Indian. Ideally, we'd use tribal names, but not even I have either the knowledge or the lung capacity to say that holiday's....”  
  
Oliver decided to save Felicity from herself by interrupting her. “I didn't realize you were anti-Thanksgiving?”  
  
“Oh, I'm not.” Then, to punctuate her point, Felicity added, “have you met me? If it's a holiday based on food and bright colors... and let's face it, Thanksgiving is pretty much all about the parade and the nosh at this point, I'm all in.” Oliver could practically see Felicity waving off his inquiry with a careless flip of her small hand. “It's just my inner Jew sympathizing with my fellow persecuted peeps.”  
  
“Wait,” and he laughed because... _how did he not know this about her?_ “You're Jewish?”  
  
“Of course. Oliver, I've told you this before.”  
  
“Uh, no. You haven't.” And he could tell that she was about to brush the topic aside and move beyond it, but he wasn't anywhere near ready to let it go. “This isn't something that I would forget.”  
  
“Well, it's not a big deal. I mean, it is,” Felicity corrected herself. He imagined her face scrunched up in thought, perhaps her bottom lip caught precariously between her teeth. “I take my heritage very seriously. But I also don't go around, introducing myself with, 'hi, I'm Felicity Smoak, I'm allergic to nuts, and I'm Jewish. That would just be weird. Anyway,” and she took a deep breath, no doubt preparing to launch them into some other avenue of conversation, but Oliver cut her off.  
  
“You know, I've never been with a Jewish girl before.”  
  
Primly, she reminded him, “well, you haven't been with me either, so....”  
  
“Yet,” Oliver corrected her. “Yet... on both accounts.”  
  
He waited for several quiet, anticipation filled moments to see how Felicity would react. Despite the fact that he had been flirting with her since the day they met, she was still oftentimes uncomfortable when he became too blatantly sexual in what he said to her, but, at the same time, Felicity could very rarely _not_ take the bait when someone was trying to goad her into one of her adorable babbles.   
  
“But that's just... you... how would you even know?”  
  
Confidently, he responded, “I just would.”  
  
She sputtered for a few seconds before yelling, “but you didn't know I was Jewish.”  
  
“And, like you pointed out, I haven't been with you; and, as I pointed out, yet.”  
  
“You are just too cocky for your own good, Mister.”  
  
Oliver could hear the incredulity in Felicity's voice, and he chuckled. Plus, if he knew her as well as he thought he did – and he did, then Felicity was blushing a scarlet dark enough to rival the red he had been drinking earlier – both because of the direction their current conversation had taken and also because she had said the word cocky. “Perhaps I am too cocky for my own good, Felicity, but, trust me, I'm not too cocky for your good.” And they both knew he wasn't talking about conceit anymore.  
  
In a desperate attempt to distract him, Felicity blurted out, “when's your Thanksgiving dinner with your family?”  
  
Deciding he had pushed her enough – for now, Oliver leaned back against his pillows and crossed his legs at his ankles. He contemplated getting off to the sound of her voice again – after all, the joint had helped, but nothing was a better pressure reliever than an orgasm, but, for now, he decided to wait. “They're actually eating as we speak.” First, he wanted to gauge what kind of mood Felicity was in. If he played his cards right that afternoon, perahps he'd be able to convince her to... play along with him. Maybe she wouldn't go all the way and have phone sex, but, even just the thought of her touching herself while they talked, well... he was already half aroused.   
  
Confused, Felicity asked, “then why are you talking to me?”  
  
“Because I wanted to.”  
  
“Oliver,” she started to warn him.   
  
And, yes, he knew that His Red Pen Girl would never accept such a simple, limited answer, but he liked riling her up just as much as he had recently discovered he enjoyed relaxing her. Plus, he was man enough to admit that it was hot when she scolded him. “It's the truth,” he swore, his free hand settling low against his own stomach. “I was just sitting there, listening to my family bond with Tommy like he was the son they always wanted me to be. And you were right, by the way. Tommy is going to class. But, anyway, I couldn't breathe. I felt trapped... like the room was closing in around me. My skin itched I was so angry. But then I thought of you, and... and everything else just went away. I could breathe again, see straight. So, I stood up, and I walked out.”  
  
“You should go back,” she told him bluntly.   
  
Oliver could already hear Felicity closing off on him, and, maybe if he wasn't high, he would have recognized the warning signs, but he was high – and drunk, so he pushed right on ahead. “Screw that.”  
  
“Oliver....”  
  
“No,” he interrupted her harshly, sitting up. In the back of his mind, Oliver realized that his breathing was elevated. “They don't want me there, and I don't want to be there.”  
  
Softly, timidly, Felicity told him, “you should.” Just as Oliver was about to explode, because not her, too – she was supposed to be on his side, the only one who understood him, the only one who really cared, Felicity started to explain herself. “My mother is... well, she's my mother. Our relationship is complicated to say the least. We have never understood one another, because we're so different. Even when I was a child, we were... distant at best. After my dad left, I blamed my mom, and she... well, she was lost. She had this genius child who she couldn't connect with, plus all the bills to manage on her own. She worked all the time – still does, partly because she needs the money and tips in Vegas are even better on holidays and partly because it's easier that way. My mom and I do not get along, we're not close, and I can't afford to fly home for the few days we get off for Thanksgiving break, but, Oliver, I would give anything – _anything –_ to spend the holidays with a family. My family. You have that, and you just... toss it away.”  
  
For so long, she had kept this part of herself a secret from him. Oliver had recognized the darkness lurking underneath all of Felicity's cheer and color, and he had suspected that her home life wasn't the greatest, but to actually hear what her life was like...? He felt humbled and honored that she had shared that with him, even if he did suspect that there was still more to Felicity Smoak that she was keeping from him. “Felicity, I never... I'm sorry.”  
  
“I don't want you sorry, Oliver,” she told him, and she sounded drained – like she was tired of him, and that scared him sober. “I just want you to be better.” Before he could respond, she added, “I have to go.”  
  
“No, wait.” And he sat up even further, desperate to keep her on the line. “We should....”  
  
“Be with your family; don't be with your family. The choice is yours, Oliver, but I won't be your reason for hurting the people closest to you.”  
  
And, then, before he could even offer her a Happy Thanksgiving, before he could promise her that he would do better, be better... like she wanted, that he would go back downstairs and eat dessert with his family, Felicity hung up. For several seconds, Oliver just sat there in shock, in fear, and even in a little bit of bitterness, listening to... nothing. Silence. From where he was in his room, the sounds from his family downstairs couldn't reach him, and Felicity was 3,000 miles away and untouchable.   
  
More than that, though, it felt like... some chasm had opened up between them that afternoon, and, with every tick of the clock upon his mantle that went by, Oliver could feel it widening, a chasm so big that no phone call, no smile, no flight across country would be able to bring them back together. Or maybe that wasn't really accurate. Maybe it was more like there was a fault beneath the ground on which they had built their tenuous relationship, and, like everything else in Oliver's life, it had just been sitting there, waiting for him to come along and screw it up, to shock that fault line apart and make everything in its path fall down into ruin. Minutes ago, he would have promised Felicity anything – including going back to dinner with his family – in order to stave off her regret and sadness, but, now that she was gone – whether for good or not, Oliver wasn't sure, he just couldn't find it in himself to care.  
  
Flopping back down onto his bed, Oliver reached over to his side and started rolling another joint.

 

 


	8. December 16, 2006

_December 16, 2006_

If he wasn't so disenchanted with... everything, maybe he wouldn't have been drunk. Already. And, if he wasn't so desperate – and lonely, maybe he wouldn't have noticed that shock of blonde hair and reacted so hastily. Distantly, in the back of Oliver's mind, he knew it wasn't her. She was in Cambridge and probably the very last person who would want to crash a Queen Consolidated Christmas Gala, but that flash of hope, of desire, was strong enough to overpower any common sense his sixth – no, make that his seventh – drink of the night had managed not to completely obliterate, and Oliver charged his way across the room, taking the petite blonde by the arm and turning her around with a unique blend of determination and tenderness.  
  
He was already sighing her name, “Felicity,” when he realized his mistake.  
  
The girl smirked, tilted her head to the side, but the gesture was all wrong. This move wasn't designed to tease but to scrutinize, appraise. When she proceeded to lasciviously lick her lips, Oliver actually felt objectified. Usually, he would appreciate such forwardness, but the moment only served to solidify his regret, reminding him that this woman was not who he wanted her to be and that everyone else saw him as nothing more than an object: a disappointment, a punchline, a tool, a weapon, a toy. “The last time I checked, my sister's name wasn't Felicity. Or... are you no longer dating my sister,” the blonde asked, taking a step closer to Oliver so that her dress subtly brushed against him. At the same time, she lifted a single digit to his chest, the lapel of his jacket used to carefully conceal her touch as her nail unerringly found his left nipple and bit through his dress shirt and into the sensitive flesh with purpose. “If that's the case....”  
  
Oliver didn't hesitate in stepping away from and pushing aside the unwanted attention. Without sparing Sara a second glance, he quickly walked away from her, using a casual, “Little Lance,” as both a careless greeting and a dismissal. He wasn't sure what kind of game Sara was playing that night, but Oliver wanted no part of it. He might have been drunk, and, yeah, okay, he might even still be high, too, from the joint he had smoked earlier, but he wasn't _that_ drunk. Without even looking to see if anyone had noticed his confrontation with Laurel's sister, Oliver made his way out of the double parlors his family used as a ballroom for large, lavish events, down the hall, through the foyer, and then up the stairs until he was once more in the privacy and protection of his bedroom. As the door clicked shut behind him, Oliver sighed in relief.  
  
His jacket was the first thing to go, Oliver allowing it to fall haphazardly onto the floor before untying and tossing aside his bowtie and releasing his cufflinks. He shrugged out of his suspenders, the accessory falling down to rest against his hips, and rolled his shirtsleeves up to the middle of his forearms. Briefly, Oliver considered stripping entirely, but the house was drafty as hell, and, for what Oliver had planned for his conversation with Felicity, he didn't want the hassle of covers to contend with. So, still dressed, he flopped gracefully down on top of his bed, his right hand reaching for his cell on the bedside table before his head even hit the mound of pillows behind him. Felicity picked up on the second ring.  
  
“Now, before you even have a chance to get mad, in a gesture of full-disclosure, yes, I am currently skipping out on the company holiday party to call you, but I'm nothing more to QC than the shareholder's biggest fear for the future. Trust me, I won't be missed, and this party is the furthest thing from family-bonding time.”  
  
Felicity chuckled. “Good evening to you, too, Oliver.”  
  
When she answered the phone already in the middle of a thought rather than a traditional greeting, Felicity didn't think twice nor was she even really aware, but, when Oliver did it, she noticed. And she laughed. It was just one more thing about her he found endearing. So, he smiled. “Hi.”  
  
He could hear the grin in her voice when she playfully and almost... shyly?... returned his salutation. “Hi.”  
  
“Oh,” Oliver remembered, brightening considerably. “Happy second day... or, actually, night of Hanukkah.” Before she could thank him – because that's not what Oliver wanted; he hadn't read up on Jewish culture and customs to earn Felicity's gratitude but, instead, to show her that he cared – that he more than cared... whatever that meant exactly, he rushed to add, “did you do anything to celebrate?”  
  
“I lit my menorah,” Felicity answered. He could hear her moving through the phone, and Oliver hoped it meant that she, too, was now laying in bed while they talked. If she had slipped into something more comfortable, he wouldn't object to that either. “If I had access to a kitchen, I would have made latkes, but dorm room. And hot plates are just an arson charge waiting to happen.” Oliver chuckled at this, because... only Felicity. “So, I ate some potato chips instead. They felt like the closest yet safest option.”  
  
“What about those fried jelly donut... things?”  
  
“Sufganiyot,” Felicity supplied for him softly. He knew her well enough to recognize the depth of emotion present in her tone. She appreciated his interest. “Again, no deep fryer in the dorm room, but there's this Jewish bakery in town. I won't go there every day of Hanukkah, but I'll splurge on the last night.” Not for the first time since he had met Felicity did Oliver feel a fission of regret and chagrin bubble inside of his chest at the reminder of how much he took for granted. Just downstairs, thousand dollar bottles of champagne were flowing like water, and then there was Felicity who was pinching her pennies to buy a few fried donuts. Her words weren't meant to shame him. Their lives were their lives, and Felicity wasn't jealous or resentful... at least, not of Oliver's wealth. But he felt what he felt nonetheless. “And, after my mom finishes her shift, she'll call, and we'll open the little gifts we sent each other while on the phone.”  
  
Her genuine excitement over something so small and simple made Oliver confess something he had planned to keep to himself. “You know, I was going to surprise you and come to Cambridge. For Hanukkah. To celebrate it... with you.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Yeah,” he mumbled noncommittally. Suddenly embarrassed because he didn't know if that was a good 'oh' or a bad 'oh', if it meant Felicity would have wanted to celebrate her holiday with him or if she was offended by the idea of Oliver just inviting him and showing up on her doorstep without warning _again_ , Oliver rubbed the back of his neck in discomfort.   
  
“Why, um, why didn't you,” Felicity asked. Her voice was higher, tighter, and Oliver sat up a little, encouraged. “Why'd you change your mind?”  
  
“I didn't.” Buoyed by her unusual agitation, he relaxed once more. “I got grounded.”  
  
And then Felicity giggled, and Oliver just knew that he would have been welcomed with open arms had he been able to surprise her. “Seriously? You're grounded? How exactly does that work when you don't actually live at home anymore?”  
  
Oliver laughed joyously at her confusion. “Not that kind of grounding. God, my parents didn't even try that when I was a teenager, because it's hard to enforce house arrest when you're never home yourselves. No,” shaking his head to emphasize his words despite the fact that Felicity couldn't see him, Oliver clarified, “my dad took away my access to the company jet.”  
  
“Because you came to see me a couple of months ago?”  
  
Oliver was pretty sure his parents had no idea about his spur-of-the-moment trip to Cambridge on Halloween, because he was positive that his parents were completely unaware of Felicity and who she was to him. Not that he planned on telling Felicity any of that, however. “No, he's pissed about my grades... or lack thereof. It was either take away my plane privileges or force me to move back home. While my dad might want me to follow his rules, he doesn't want to actually have to do anything to make me toe the line, so I'm stuck in Starling City for the foreseeable future.”  
  
“Did he take your credit cards away, too?”  
  
“What,” Oliver gasped in shock, in outrage at the very idea. “No. Of course not.”  
  
“Then you do realize,” Felicity told him, and Oliver didn't need to be sober to hear the taunting note to her words, “that you could have just taken a commercial flight.”  
  
“Huh. I never thought of that.” With that admission, Felicity lost it. She was laughing so hard, Oliver was sure that her sides would hurt when she finally settled back down again. It made him grin in satisfaction to be able to cause her such mirth... even if it was at his own expense. While it was gratifying to hear how happy Felicity was in that moment, it would have been even better if he could have seen her. “Hey,” Oliver cut into Felicity's amusement, recapturing her attention. “Since I can't fly to you... or, at least... yeah, anyway. Why don't you fly to me?”  
  
“Oliver,” Felicity said gently... like an adult scolding a flighty child. “If I can't afford to fly home to see my mother for Thanksgiving, what makes you think I can afford to fly to California to see you?”  
  
If that was her only objection.... “Felicity, I'd pay for your ticket.” Instead of acceptance of his generosity and invitation, before the last word of Oliver's offer even left his mouth, tension radiated from the other line of the call. Oliver was greeted with terse silence. “Felicity?”  
  
“Do you realize how that makes me feel?” Her voice was tight, strained. “When you try to throw money at me like I'm just some....” Her words trailed off, but Oliver didn't need her to finish the thought. She was hurt and insulted, and it immediately set off Oliver's own defenses. “It's degrading. It makes me feel cheap.”  
  
“And do you know how it makes me feel when you dismiss me so easily, when you push me away, when I'm the only one who ever seems to make an effort?”  
  
In whispered, bruised words, Felicity admitted, “maybe I'd try a little harder, Oliver, if I actually believed you to be sincere.”  
  
“What the hell is that supposed to mean,” he exploded, sitting up and moving to the edge of his bed in his agitation.  
  
“I don't have to explain myself to you... or anyone else, for that matter,” she fired right back. “But maybe I would... if you weren't high. Or drunk. Or both. Seeing as how you're never sober, however... at least not when you call me, then it would seem that we're at an impasse.” Felicity didn't even give him a chance to defend himself, to argue, to say anything before she was dismissing him. “Goodbye, Oliver.”  
  
Goodbye.  
  
Not 'goodnight.' Not 'I have to go.' Not 'I'll talk to you later.'   
  
Goodbye.  
  
The finality of that one word burned almost as much as the realization that, just like everyone else, Felicity had judged him... and found Oliver lacking.   
  
Throwing his cell across the room and uncaring if he broke it in the process, Oliver didn't even offer the electronic device a second look before he was reaching for his nightstand's drawer and removing the box entirely... exactly like he had done on Thanksgiving. His fingers worked quickly to roll a joint. Just as Oliver was lighting it, though, he was startled by his bedroom door opening, causing him to shoot up to his feet. Instead of his parents, or Raisa, or Thea, or Tommy, or even Laurel, he was greeted by a smug and confident blonde – the same one he had rejected so rudely twenty minutes earlier. Wordlessly, Oliver watched as Sara grinned, bit her bottom lip, and then reached behind her to lock the door to his room.  
  
“You know, as the host, you should offer to share all party favors.”  
  
He quirked his brows in acknowledgement of her words. Lighting up, Oliver took a deep hit before saying, “I have been told that I am extremely generous.”  
  
“Lucky me,” Sara murmured as she slowly advanced towards him, yet Oliver didn't actually hand her the joint.  
  
When she stopped and started to unzip her dress, Oliver calmly asked, “what are you doing, Little Lance?”  
  
“I can't go back to the party smelling like... trouble. Daddy wouldn't approve, and my sister....”  
  
He wasn't going to sleep with her. Probably. Though she was blonde and blue eyed, her hair wasn't golden enough, and her eyes were too light, too cold. Her curves were too subtle, her manner too forward, and her chin was just all wrong. Yet, the blue eyed blonde that Oliver did want wasn't there, and, apparently, she didn't return his feelings... whatever they may be. But Sara...? She was there, and she was paying him attention, and she wanted him. Oliver wasn't sure if the attraction was genuine interest on her part, or if she liked the idea of him because he was her sister's boyfriend and her father's worst nightmare, but, either way, he didn't care. Flirting with her was a balm to his battered ego.   
  
“You know,” Oliver smirked, reaching out and grasping a lock of her loose, light hair. He tugged the strand – perhaps a little more harshly than he should have, but she never flinched, didn't even blink – and then wrapped it around his right index finger. “I've recently discovered that I'm partial to blondes.”  
  
Dyed blondes – dyed blondes who also had a penchant for wearing bright colors and chewing on red pens, but beggars couldn't be choosers.   
  
And Oliver Queen didn't beg.

 


	9. April 23, 2007

_April 23, 2007_

“Felicity....”   
  
Oliver tried to swallow, but there was a lump permanently stuck in his throat. His chest felt empty... like he had no lungs to breathe, no heart to pump life through his veins, and the heaviness of... nothing weighed down upon him. They hadn't talked since Christmas. Hanukkah. Whatever. The holiday itself didn't matter; the distance did. Yet, Oliver had no one to blame but himself, because his anger towards Felicity had vanished just as quickly that night as it had materialized, and the only thing she had hurt was his pride. Oliver had avoided her nonetheless, though – not because he hadn't wanted to talk to her but because he didn't know what to say. Felicity's accusations had forced him to hold a mirror up to his own actions, and even Oliver had found them wanting. Instead of changing, however, or even apologizing, Oliver just pushed her further away. Oh, he still occasionally called her – drunk dialing her number in the middle of the night. Felicity always answered, but she never said anything. And neither did he. But now? Now, there was a truth he couldn't hide from; couldn't drink away, smoke away, fuck away, and the only person he wanted – no, needed – to talk to was the one person his words would perhaps disappoint the most, the one person he deserved the least.   
  
That didn't stop him from calling her, though – not this time.  
  
Instead of an apology, the only thing Oliver found himself capable of saying was a plea. “Felicity, _please_.”  
  
Please. Please don't hang up. Please listen. Please be here for me. Please don't hate me, don't turn me away, don't ignore me. Please comfort me; please console me. Please just... don't leave me. Maybe Felicity wasn't physically with him, but, three thousand miles away or not, sometimes it felt like she was the only person who mentally and emotionally understood him, who didn't push him away. Sometimes he ran away from her, but, even when they weren't talking, it still felt like Felicity saw him – the real him... or, at least, the Oliver he wanted to be.   
  
“I know it's been a while, but... I didn't know who else to turn to.” Briefly, he had considered going to his parents or, more specifically, his mother, but this was the one thing, the one kind of trouble, that Moira Queen couldn't make disappear. And maybe Oliver didn't want her to. While he knew he wasn't ready to handle the consequences of his own actions, he also didn't want someone else to face them for him. That seemed even more... cowardly, and, in the back of his mind, he somehow knew that Felicity would be more disillusioned with him for pushing his fear off onto someone else than she would be of the fear itself... or his reason for it. As for anyone else in his life, his father always made Oliver feel like he had more important things to deal with than his son's latest mess, Thea was too young, and Tommy was just... no. Tommy wasn't an option, not for this.  
  
After several silent moments – moments during which Oliver suspected Felicity was weighing her options and deciding whether or not she still cared enough to listen, she finally sighed, sounding... exhausted. Yet, despite her obvious weariness, she was still there; she still asked, “what's wrong? What happened?”  
  
“I'm... I got... I'm going to be a father.” The funny thing was that, until that moment, Oliver hadn't been able to actually say those words out loud, but, once he did, it was like the floodgates opened, and... everything just came spewing out of his mouth. He couldn't have stopped talking if he tried. Pacing the length of his childhood bedroom, Oliver only paused between sentences long enough to take hasty, hearty gulps of the tumbler he held full of scotch. “Which... is the most ridiculous idea ever. I can't even take care of myself, and now I'm going to be half responsible for some... kid? What, is it – and it's mother, I guess – supposed to move in with me and Tommy? None of my cars even have back seats, my clothes are all dry-clean only, and... and I don't even remember – or maybe I never even knew, because I sure as hell don't recall much about the hookup – the girl's name.” Pausing in his pacing long enough to cross towards his desk and refill his glass from the already half emptied decanter sitting there, Oliver laughed humorlessly. “I think it's Susan, or Sandy, or Samantha. Something like that.”  
  
“So, she's keeping the baby?”  
  
Felicity's question made him pull up short. “I guess. I mean, I didn't exactly ask. Didn't think I had a right to. But why would she tell me about the kid if she wasn't planning on keeping it?”  
  
“Her body or not, you have a right to know that you conceived a child, Oliver,” she challenged him coldly. “Perhaps she just wanted to do the right thing.”  
  
He shrugged, not paying attention when some of the liquor splashed out of his tumbler. “Doesn't matter. Besides, I think it's too late now for... that.”  
  
The line went silent; she didn't respond.  
  
“Felicity,” he practically implored. “Say something, please.”  
  
“What do you want me to say, Oliver?”  
  
“I'm freaking out here, and all you offer me are empty, politically correct platitudes. Tell me that you're sorry; tell me that everything will be okay!”   
  
What he really meant, however, was 'tell me that you'll be there for me, that you'll help, that I'm not in this alone. Tell me that you're coming out to Starling City, that you'll finish school here, that you'll somehow make everything better.' Oliver couldn't ask for any of that, though, and, evidently, Felicity wouldn't offer it.  
  
“I am sorry, Oliver.” It was exactly what he told her he wanted, but the words held no warmth or sympathy. “I'm sorry for this girl – Susan, or Sandy, or Samantha. Something like that. I'm sorry that she got caught up in your whole act and allowed herself to be seduced by you. I'm sorry that you weren't conscientious or respectful enough – to her or to yourself – to make sure that you were safe when you had sex with a girl whose name you don't even remember. But, most of all, I'm sorry for this child, because it did nothing wrong, yet it's going to be the one to suffer the consequences of your selfish, immature actions.”  
  
“You make it sound like it's all my fault,” Oliver accused – his voice rising in agitation and frustration. “She was there, too, Felicity. Yeah, I screwed up, but she's just as much to blame as I am. She could have told me that she wasn't on birth control; she could have made sure I wore a condom.”  
  
“How do you know that she didn't, seeing as how you can't even recall her name, Oliver?” He didn't reply, because she had a valid point. “Besides, neither birth control nor condoms are 100% effective. The problem isn't that you had sex and accidentally conceived a child.”  
  
“It's not,” Oliver scoffed.  
  
Felicity ignored him. “The problem is that you had sex with a stranger and knocked her up. This wouldn't be as big of a deal if she was your girlfriend and you were in love with her.”  
  
Considering the fact that Laurel was the closest thing Oliver had to a girlfriend, and he certainly wasn't in love – not with her, he begged to differ. But, thankfully – for what was probably the first time since they had met, Felicity didn't actually bring up Laurel, so Oliver dodged that unpleasant conversation.   
  
“So, what are you going to do now?”  
  
Oliver was so caught off guard by Felicity's rapid shift in focus and by her question that he reacted thoughtlessly and instinctively. “I have no idea,” punctuating his words with a loud gulp as he finished off his latest tumbler of scotch.   
  
Snorting derisively, Felicity suggested, “sobering up might be a good idea.”  
  
How did she...? “Excuse me?”  
  
“Oh, give me a break, Oliver. You're drunk. You're always drunk. Or high. Usually both. You were probably drunk when you conceived this child – you both probably were. Speaking of which,” Felicity added, a note of cruelty entering her voice. It was a new shade of her personality, one he had never seen – well, heard – before, and, even more than Oliver hated that she was treating him in such a way, he hated it more that he was the one who brought out this darkness from inside of her. “You might want to make sure that your baby momma doesn't partake as often as you do, because, if so, car seats and spit up will be the least of your concerns.”  
  
He recognized what she was doing. Felicity was frustrated, and she was upset, and she was taking her pain – pain he had caused – out on him. She wanted to hurt him as much as he had hurt her. Despite understanding her actions, they still stung, and he reacted in kind, lashing out at her in return. In so many ways, he and Felicity were completely unalike – their interests, their goals, their backgrounds; yet, in the ways that mattered the most – like how they shielded themselves from heartache by closing off and putting on masks, by going on the attack, they were exactly the same. So, when her words started to sting, Oliver unconsciously bit back. “Jealous?”  
  
“Oh, grow up, Oliver! Sober up, clean up, and grow up. This isn't about you anymore.” Blinking at the sheer harshness of her tone, Oliver found himself actually setting the glass down on top of some random flat surface despite the fact that it still had at least a finger of liquid fire, of liquid courage, swirling in its depths. He didn't get a chance to respond, however, before Felicity continued in a hushed, subdued murmur. “It's not about me either.”  
  
He wanted to argue; he wanted to tell her that, more than she could ever know, it was about her. Oliver had always enjoyed sex, and he had never been a faithful boyfriend, but, after meeting Felicity, he started to cheat just that much more. It was like, the more he wanted her and wanted to be deserving of her, the more he acted out when he couldn't have her despite the fact that the very reason she pushed him away was because she didn't trust the interest he showed in her to be genuine and heartfelt. He was his own worst enemy, his own self-defeating prophecy.  
  
“It never was,” Felicity whispered in realization.  
  
But she was wrong – so very, very wrong.  
  
But then she was also gone as well, their call – and what felt like Oliver's only life-line – severed.   
  
The phone slipped from his numbed with alcohol fingers, landing soundlessly on the thick, plush carpet of his childhood bedroom – a fitting place, the only place, to contemplate becoming a father himself.

 

 


	10. April 27, 2007

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Pretty, Pretty Pictures!](https://www.pinterest.com/oycharlynnrose/a-picture-is-worth-a-thousand-words-fic-visuals/)

_April 27, 2007_

It had been four days since he had last spoken with her, but it felt like an entire lifetime had flashed before his eyes in a matter of a few mere hours. Oliver wasn't concerned with how their previous phone call had ended. As he stood outside her dorm room for the first time in months, he knew that he was in the only place he could possibly be that afternoon and that, no matter the rift between them, Felicity wouldn't turn him away. At least, not initially. Not if he didn't do something to hurt and push her away first. Despite this confidence in her, in her compassion, and in her capacity to forgive him which he admittedly took full advantage of far more than he should, Oliver hesitated to knock. While he didn't doubt that Felicity would emotionally be there for him, he wasn't sure if she would physically be available.  
  
He wasn't a good friend. Hell, he wasn't a good brother or son either, and 'not good' didn't even begin to cover how awful of a boyfriend he was. But, with Felicity, he attempted to be different. Better. Or, at least, he had before their fight over winter break. Since then, he hadn't taken the time to learn about her spring schedule – when her new classes met and when she was now working. So, with one fist poised to knock and the other continuously clenching and releasing in an effort to reign in his nerves, Oliver told himself that he was hesitating, not because he wasn't sure about what to say or do when he finally saw her, but because what if she wasn't there, and he had to deal with Peter The Roommate?  
  
But then the door was opening without him having to knock, and then Felicity was there, and then Oliver just found himself reacting instinctively. “Listen up, Jock-Boy, I can hear you breathing.... Oliver?!”  
  
He didn't respond; he didn't question her greeting. Lifting both of his hands to cup her face, he tilted her mouth towards his while, at the same time, leaning down and closing the distance their disparate yet not incompatible heights left between them. And then he kissed her. It was something Oliver had been wanting to do since the very first moment he saw her chewing on that preposterous red pen. Her lips, no matter what color they were painted, were always a temptation, but, as she stood before him that late April afternoon, they almost looked bare. They were the palest pink he had ever seen them. The color red was fiery and passionate, and the pink Felicity usually favored was sassy and unpredictable, but this shade was... intimate. It was so close to the natural color of her lips that it was almost like she wasn't wearing any lipstick at all. Whereas Oliver chose booze and pills as his shields against true intimacy, Felicity used bright colors and humor. She was fully dressed in fuchsia and orange, and her nails were a shimmery navy blue, but her lips looked naked, and he couldn't _not_ kiss her.  
  
So, he did.  
  
It was a soft embrace, a light one. Oliver didn't press her for more or even try to deepen the kiss. As he brushed their lips together, their noses also touched, and he smiled against her mouth, his eyes falling shut in contentment. Even after the kiss ended, he didn't pull away. Instead, he held her close, and he breathed her in, and he just savored having her near again after so long. It rocked Oliver to realize that, despite how few of their conversations had actually happened in person, his body recognized hers – its touch, its rhythms, its scent. She was familiar.   
  
He could have stayed right there, holding her, for forever, but, eventually, the noises of her building started to intrude, and Oliver chose to break the moment so that they could fully move inside of her dorm room and close the door behind them for privacy. Once that was accomplished, he turned once more to face her, and words behind his confession and reason for traveling 3,000 miles to see her just started pouring from him. “Sandra lost the baby.”  
  
Never could Oliver have predicted Felicity's reaction. “You kissed me,” she accused him.  
  
Grinning, he replied, “you kissed me back.”  
  
“I'm still mad at you.” And, if Oliver had to hazard a guess, she was still hurt as well. After all, he was pretty sure that's where Felicity's anger almost always originated. “You were an ass the last time we talked.”  
  
But they'd get to that later. “Who's Jock-Boy?”  
  
Felicity sighed in frustration. “Why are you here, Oliver?”  
  
When he had heard the news about the baby, with Felicity was the only place he could fathom being. “You look, uh, really nice,” he complimented instead of answering her, instead of revealing a level of vulnerability he wasn't prepared to share with her yet. “Do you... are you going out?”  
  
“I have a date.”  
  
“Right. Of course,” he was reacting before he could really absorb her words. But then he truly heard them, and Oliver exploded, “wait? What?!”  
  
And Felicity sighed. “I don't have a date. There is a music event on campus tonight that I was going to attend. This is just... how I always dress. Well, with a coat, because it's forty degrees out there. But it would have served you right, Oliver, if I was going on a date.” Before he could protest, she continued to scold him. “You can't just show up here without warning and expect me to pause my life. And you have no claim on me.”  
  
“And the mouth breather,” he demanded to know.  
  
Rolling her eyes and her shoulders back, Felicity spun around and moved to sit on the edge of her bed. Oliver kept standing where he was just inside of her door. “I told you about my stalker during Freshman year, that he was a lacrosse neanderthal. I never did any research into his identity, because that felt hypocritical, and, frankly, I didn't want to know anything about him. So, I called him Jock-Boy... like John-Boy, only lacrosse instead of farmer, so... yeah.” She was twisting her fingers together as she explained her comments from earlier, and, despite his frustration with her less than warm welcome, Oliver couldn't help but find her adorable. Slowly, his glower was replaced with a small, crooked grin. “When I heard who I now know was you outside of my door... just standing there, I thought maybe he was back and bolder than ever.”  
  
“I'm sorry if I scared you,” Oliver apologized sincerely. And then he let some of his defenses drop. “I was just... nervous.” He shrugged his shoulders, explaining further. “As soon as I heard the news about the baby, I realized that you were the only person that I wanted to talk to, to see. But then I was here, and... I didn't know what to say.”  
  
For the first time since she opened her door and saw him standing there, Felicity smiled. Patting the bed beside her, she invited him to sit down – an invitation Oliver was more than keen to accept. Once he was seated, she twisted some to face him, their knees ghosting together. “I think you're doing a pretty good job so far. Well, besides that whole jealous putz part.” She took his right hand between both of hers and squeezed lightly. “How did it happen?”  
  
“I don't know,” Oliver admitted. Before she could reprimand him for not caring enough to find out, he hurried to add, “Sandra didn't say, and I... I wasn't sure if I had a right to even ask her. So, I didn't. She seemed okay, but we really didn't know each other well, and I could tell that she was uncomfortable talking with me.”  
  
“And what about you,” Felicity asked him. At what must have been his puzzled expression, she clarified, “how are you doing? What are you feeling?”  
  
“Confused mostly,” he admitted. Expanding upon his answer, Oliver said, “I'm not really sure what to think or how to feel.” Sighing, he confessed, “or maybe I'm just feeling too much.”  
  
“Oliver,” Felicity prompted, and he looked up to meet her gaze again. Her eyes were warm and welcoming, sympathetic, but they didn't hold an ounce of pity or censure. He found that looking at her in that moment allowed him to take his first deep breath since he had opened the door at his parents' house and found Sandra on the other side, waiting for him. “I have no idea what you're going through. I've never been pregnant. I'm an only child with no extended family. I've never even held a baby before. But I'll listen. Anything you want to tell me – no matter what it is, I'll listen. No judgements.”  
  
“What about your concert?”  
  
Her only response was to tilt her head to the side, raise a pointed brow, and glare at him. Oliver chuckled in response. “Okay.” He even held up his hand that wasn't engulfed between hers in a sign of surrender. After a moment, however, both his arm and his smile fell back down once more, and Oliver took several minutes to organize his thoughts. When he finally started to talk, he found that he had turned his right hand over and was using it to trace and caress Felicity's much smaller, more delicate digits. He ran the pad of his index finger over the smoothness of her painted nails; he traced the lines of her palm, wondering which was the love line and what the various details of it meant for her future, her passion, his role in her life; and, rather than the middle finger where she wore a large, geometric ring, Oliver found himself fascinated with the bare finger next to it, circling it over and over again with his touch.   
  
“I... When Sandra came to me and told me that she was pregnant, it was the last thing I wanted. I didn't want to have a baby, I didn't want to be a father, and I certainly didn't want the mother of my child to be some woman I couldn't even remember. Maybe it makes me a total bastard, but I wanted her to take care of it.” Oliver paused to take a deep breath, glancing at Felicity out of the corner of his eyes, but she hadn't reacted to his less than stand-up statement. Instead, she seemed intensely focused upon the movements of his hands. Though Oliver could tell that she was listening to him, the feel of his skin upon hers seemed to demand her attention. The realization buoyed him, gave him some much needed courage, and he continued.  
  
“But when she told me that she lost the baby, I just... I _felt_ the loss. And it wasn't even just compassion for what she was going through, physically and emotionally; it was more selfish than that. I'm relieved – glad, even – that I'm not having a child with a stranger, and it's not like I'm mourning the loss of my son or daughter. But I do feel... something for that life that was. And now isn't. It's not grief, not exactly,” he said as he tried to puzzle through his feelings out loud. “Maybe it's wonder... about what might have been, about how I would have reacted if the circumstances were different.” If he was different. If it wouldn't have been Sandra who was carrying his child.  
  
“I don't think that these thoughts and feelings make you selfish, Oliver; I think they make you human.” Oliver looked up and over towards Felicity and found that she was refusing to meet his gaze and that her cheeks were flushed pink. “When you told me that Sandra lost the baby, I wasn't even a part of the situation – not really, and I still reacted in much the same way. Well, except for the vodka part,” she tacked on, finally bringing her gaze up to rest upon his face. “Just how much did you drink on the plane?”  
  
He shrugged, unsure and unrepentant, because, for the first time, Felicity wasn't mentioning his drinking in reprimand. She seemed to understand his need to dull the world for once. “Don't forget the limo, too.”  
  
“You rented a limo to bring you here from the airport?” And then she was scrambling across his lap and over towards the window that was above her bed and that looked down upon the front of her building. Pushing aside her colorful – always so colorful – curtains, Felicity looked out to see if she could spot his latest splurge.   
  
While Oliver answered her, he watched her very round, very plump, very pert ass. “Cabs don't have fully stocked minibars.”  
  
Felicity was already talking once again, changing the subject in fact, when she spun around and settled herself against the mountain of pillows that rested against her headboard. As she demurely tucked her legs beneath her, she lifted her hands up to do the same with a few loose strands of hair that had managed to escape her ubiquitous ponytail. “May I ask you something you're probably not going to want to answer, because you just dodged a bullet, so to speak, and this is definitely not something you're even considering if I...?”  
  
“You can ask me anything, Felicity,” he interrupted her. More-so than Oliver feared what was about to come out of his Red Pen Girl's mouth, he was curious.   
  
“Do you want children? Someday?”  
  
He didn't respond right away to show Felicity that he was seriously contemplating her inquiry. “The easy _and_ the complicated answer to your question is that I don't know.” He watched her face, particularly her mouth and nose, purse in thought, so Oliver continued. “I know that I shouldn't. My relationship with my own parents is... complicated.”  
  
“Aren't they all,” Felicity remarked, rolling her eyes. But she didn't expand upon her acknowledging statement, so he pressed onward.   
  
“They're nothing like me. They're responsible, and hard working, and successful, but all those things that they want for me don't make them good parents either. They're very... distant, cold. Their solution to every problem is to always throw money at it. They've been so wrapped up in their own lives that they've been absent from mine and Thea's. So, it's not like I've had a great example. But just because I know that I shouldn't have kids that doesn't actually answer your question. Or mine. Because I've wondered about that, too – if I even wanted children.”  
  
“Alright, well, then, let's make it more general,” Felicity suggested. “Forget your parents, and babies, and this pregnancy scare. What do you want, period?”  
  
As if he couldn't have this conversation and _not_ be touching her, Oliver reached out and allowed the fingers of his right hand to dance across the silky smooth skin of Felicity's bent knees. She didn't shy or pull away from his touch. In fact, she outwardly didn't react at all, but her body betrayed her by breaking out into goosebumps. Grinning at both her response to him and in light of his answer, Oliver looked up, met her gaze, and said, “you.”  
  
She didn't return his banter. In fact, much to the contrary, she pushed his hand away from her leg and rebuked him. “For once, would you actually be serious.”  
  
So, he was. “I want to be Oliver,” he confided in her. It was the first time he had even admitted this desire... even to himself, but that couldn't detract from its sincerity. “Not Ollie.” Turning so that he was fully facing her, Oliver moved so that his legs were straddling hers, though he held himself above her. Caging Felicity in with his arms on either side of her torso so that she couldn't run away from him, Oliver forced her to look up and unflinchingly, unblinking meet his serious and unrelenting gaze. “But I only seem capable of being him when I'm with you.”  
  
Wide eyed and speechless, whether he was drunk on vodka or not, Oliver could tell that, for the first time, he had finally managed to get through to Felicity. He could see the belief she had in his confession reflected back at him in her open and teary baby blues. Just like earlier, when he had first arrived, he couldn't _not_ kiss her. However, this time, it was anything but soft and light.   
  
He possessed her, completely and utterly. With his lips, and his tongue, and his teeth, he demanded that she open for him. And she did. As Oliver invaded her mouth and then coaxed her into slipping her tongue into his, he hastily pushed all of her pillows aside and onto the floor. Felicity fell down flat onto her back, her legs still bent and closed beneath them. Continuing to kiss her, he linked their fingers together and then pushed her arms out and up so that were resting above her head. When he let go of her hands, he slowly trailed his touch down her arms. It was when the pads of his fingers brushed against the tender skin of her inner elbows that she squirmed below him. Her torso twisted, her legs pushed out between his own, and then they fell open slightly.   
  
But it wasn't enough.  
  
It would _never_ be enough.  
  
Tearing his mouth from hers, Oliver watched in satisfaction as Felicity struggled to take in deep breaths. He relished every single rise and fall of her chest. He only managed to look away in order to trail his eyes down her soft with arousal body, eventually focusing on where their lower bodies were touching. It was pleasurable but awkward, so he repositioned them, sliding his own legs between Felicity's and then smiling widely when, with a sigh, she allowed her legs to part completely as she opened herself up to him. In the process of her movements, her full, short skirt slipped that much higher up against her supple, bare thighs.   
  
Despite the invitation she presented, laying before him like that, Oliver refrained from surging forward into the embrace her open hips made. Instead, as his right hand found the sliver of bare skin along her abdomen, dipping below her shirt to kneed and massage her quaking torso, his left walked the long line of her right leg until it disappeared beneath her skirt. At first, he just traced the edges of her panties – around her thigh, across the face of her pelvis, and then back around over her ass. But Oliver was quickly distracted by the damp heat he could feel pooling between her legs, and his touch inevitably sought that heat out, initially dancing over top of her panty-covered wetness before he completely palmed her, pressing the heel of his hand up and into her mound.   
  
She whimpered, bit her bottom lip. “Oliver.” He wasn't sure if she was begging him to come closer or attempting to find a reason to push him away. So, he decided for her, finding the seam of her panties once more and pushing it aside to really and truly touch her for the first time. Felicity was breathing shallowly, and her voice was of a slightly higher pitch when she struggled to say, “oh, god. I can't. We can't.”  
  
“We are.”  
  
She moaned, but then she pulled her legs up so that her knees were bent around him, her feet, still encased in her little floral flats, planted firmly upon the mattress. Although her movements were meant to discourage him, they, in fact, trapped Oliver exactly where he wanted to be. “I won't help you cheat.”  
  
He inhaled sharply, caught off guard by her voiced reservation. “Felicity, I almost had a child with another woman. More importantly, I haven't been in love _with Laurel_ for a really long time now. If ever. Things between Laurel and I are as good as over – have been for months.”  
  
Before Felicity could respond, before Oliver could find out if she'd finally let down that last and final wall between them, his cell phone rang. He didn't need to look to see who was calling, and he didn't have to ask to know that, whatever it was that had been happening between he and Felicity that late April afternoon, was now over. But, still, Oliver refused to let go of her, to stop touching her, until she either asked him to or forced the issue. So, while Felicity sat up and reached into his back pocket, Oliver remained between her legs; and his hand remained inside of her underwear; and he continued to trail his fingers up, and down, and through the wetness between her legs that his touch, his kiss, his presence in her life and, in that moment, her bed had inspired.   
  
When his phone finally stopped ringing, Felicity dropped it beside them on top of her rumpled comforter before sitting up, pulling her legs up towards the rest of her body, and then sliding off the edge of the bed. Oliver clenched his jaw as he watched her shut down on him, moving as far away from him as she could. Defensively, her arms came up to wrap around her suddenly tense body, and she refused to meet his eyes. “You should go. You need to leave now.”  
  
“Felicity....”  
  
“No,” she cut him off. But it wasn't like Oliver knew what he was going to say to her anyway. “I'm not pushing you away, and I'm not running away either. I'll still be here, waiting to help you be the man that you want to be, but Oliver,” she warned him. It was then that her gaze cut towards him, catching his. “That can't happen until you stop being the boy you don't want to be.”  
  
Nodding, he stood up, re-pocketing his phone. He would leave. He would listen to her. While Oliver doubted that he'd be able to get a return flight to Starling immediately, for he had flown commercial, and while he had no idea what he would do in Boston until he could go back home, he knew that he couldn't stay there any longer. He'd respect her enough to honor her wish and back off. At least, for now. As he was walking by her desk, however, he paused long enough to pocket one of her red pens. “I'll go, but I'm taking this with me.”  
  
“Oliver, it's just a pen. I can get a pack of ten for two dollars.”  
  
With a half grin, he argued with her. “That's where you're wrong, Felicity. It's not just a pen; it's _your red pen_ , and that's one of the first things I noticed about you that morning all those months ago.”  
  
She seemed flustered, at a loss for words, but he didn't push her; he just quietly slipped out of her dorm room, his right hand never once letting go of that pen.

 


	11. May 11, 2007

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you still interested in this story, I'm not going to insult you by offering excuses, for there are none. I should have posted. I didn't. I am sorry. And I promise that the last chapter of this ficlet, its epilogue, will be EXTREMELY forthcoming. Hopefully, so, too, will other updates. Thank you for reading, for your patience, and for all of your wonderful remarks on and insights into this story.
> 
> ~Charlynn~

_May 11, 2007_

“Good morning, Felicity.”  
  
And, despite the shit-storm that was the rest of his life, he was talking to his Red Pen Girl, so it was _good_. So, Oliver smiled. And he waited for her response. And he tried to map out in his mind the very best approach to their upcoming conversation, because, for once, he really wanted Felicity to say yes. He didn't hold out much hope, because, although she just had finals left to her spring semester, Oliver had no doubt that she was preparing to take another full semester's worth of courses during her summer break. But it was still early, and three weeks wasn't _that_ long of a trip, and she was Felicity Smoak. She was so smart, and tenacious, and he had no doubt that she could never step foot inside of a classroom and still ace every single exam and assignment. In fact, Oliver really didn't understand why she was going to college at all, because he was convinced that she already knew more about computers, and technology, and cyber security than anyone at MIT could ever teach her. In his book, she could pretty much be ruling the world at eighteen... if she so desired.  
  
“Oliver, just because you _just_ woke up, that does not make it.... Holy shish kabobs. It _is_ morning.”  
  
He chuckled good-humoredly, anticipating such a reaction. “I might have gotten a D in tenth grade algebra, Felicity, but even I learned how to tell time.” Before she could comment, before she could tease him, he added, “and, no, not in the tenth grade.”  
  
“It's just... it's morning,” Felicity struggled to talk, stuttered. It was quite adorable... even 3,000 miles away from each other and over the phone. “ _For both of us_.” And then he could practically see her waving away her own statement, rolling her eyes. “I mean, obviously, it's the morning for both of us and not just you, because you wouldn't have said 'good morning' to me otherwise. Unless you were being ironic. But you weren't. You never really are. And, I guess, technically, it could just be morning for me and only late night for you, but most people don't say 'good morning' to someone at two a.m.. Unless they're cruel and sadistic. And that's not really your bag either.”  
  
“Baby.”  
  
Oliver heard her suck in a breath, and he smirked. “Excuse me?”  
  
 _“_ This kind of thing is my bag _, baby.”_  
  
“Really. You're quoting Austin Powers to me at... eight a.m., your time. How are you, _Oliver Queen_ , even functioning right now?”  
  
“If you were here with me, I'd show you just how well I'm functioning.”  
  
And then she barked out a laugh at his line, because it was cheesy, and totally something Oliver Queen would be expected to sincerely say to anyone besides Felicity Smoak. “I can't believe you roll out of bed this way. Are you always just... on?”  
  
“Turned on,” he amended, opening the fridge and rooting around Raisa's perfectly organized shelves. She'd be pissed when she came back from running errands to see that he turned a portion of her well-greased machine of a world into chaos, but, if nothing else, Oliver saw himself as an expert at diffusing irate Russians.   
  
“Oliver, stop. I'm being serious now,” Felicity chastised him. Lighting up with a grin when he spotted what he was looking for, Oliver pulled the two bottles out and bumped the door shut with his hip. Turning towards the impeccably clean island, he set his loot down as he went in search of a proper glass to mix his... breakfast. “Kind of. I mean, this is a really ridiculous conversation to be having, and I highly doubt you called so early, your time, so we could discuss, well, time, I guess.” And then, like he had been waiting for since their conversation had started, he heard the realization dawn in Felicity's tone. “Wait, you haven't even gone to bed yet, have you?”  
  
“Nope.” In his giddiness at her frustrated amusement, Oliver even went so far as to pop his 'p.'  
  
“So, um, are you... you know, getting ready to... go to bed?” Oliver paused in his actions. Suddenly, it wasn't enough to be talking to Felicity. He wanted to see her. He _needed_ to see her – to see her blush, to see her bite her bottom lip, to see her lashes flutter down to kiss the apples of her cheeks as, in her embarrassment, she avoided his gaze. Then he wanted to tilt her face up and kiss _those_ cheeks for himself. And her ass as well. He _really_ wanted to kiss.... “To sleep. I totally meant to sleep, not... anything else.”  
  
“Why,” he questioned her, the drink he had been about to mix totally forgotten. Oliver was still buzzing from the previous night out, and he had been planning on unwinding with a poinsettia. Or two. It wasn't just a drink for the holidays. In fact, he liked how the lighter cranberry juice mixed with the champagne better than orange juice, so, if he was going to get polite, white, rich-boy, morning wasted, poinsettias over mimosas for the win any day, every day. “Are you thinking about me getting undressed, about unbuttoning my shirt and pulling its tails from my dress pants, about sliding down my zipper?” Forgoing the glass he had been searching for, Oliver went directly for the drawer where Raisa kept the corkscrews. Those, he had long since learned of their location. “Or maybe you're thinking about me sliding into bed completely naked. Because, Felicity, that's how I sleep – just me, and my sheets, and my thoughts of you to keep me... warm. Hot.” Leaving the juice out on the island, Oliver slipped his right hand around the neck of the champagne bottle and strolled out of the kitchen, making his way towards the front of the house and the stairs which would take him to his room. “Yet again, maybe you're thinking about how it felt to have me sliding against you. In your bed.”  
  
She didn't answer him. In fact, Felicity blatantly changed the subject, but Oliver allowed her the defensive move, because her voice was an octave or two higher, and he knew that she wasn't unaffected by his words, by what he knew to be the promise behind them. “So, uh, how did your parents react to your grades? Or, well, rather, your incompletes? Are you grounded again, aeronautically-speaking?”  
  
“Worse,” Oliver answered, snorting in derision at his parents' latest attempts to do just that: parent. “But that's actually why I'm calling.”  
  
“Oh. Okay.”  
  
“If you could go anywhere – anywhere at all, where you would go?”  
  
“Oliver,” Felicity started to complain about what she perceived to be his mercurial and irresponsible question.  
  
“Felicity,” he countered, shaking his head in joy at just how... difficult she was. He liked it. He liked that she never let him get away with anything... even when, for once, he wasn't actually trying to pull a fast one on her or on anyone else. “Just... answer the question. I promise that I'm not avoiding the issue. It's related.”  
  
“Of course,” she scoffed. “If I received an incomplete in even one of my classes, I'd lose my scholarship, but you get _nothing_ in all of your courses and get rewarded with a dream vacation.”  
  
“Actually, for your information – and, for the record, I'm very disappointed that you didn't already hack into my account and learn this for yourself, I got an A in one of my classes.”  
  
“What, 'How to be a Playboy 101?'”  
  
“No, weight-lifting, actually,” Oliver informed her pertly.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Strolling into his room, he grinned at the small victory that was her breathless response. Quietly shutting the door behind him, Oliver moved towards his bed, uncorked the champagne, and then put his phone temporarily on speaker – something he had learned _just_ for such an occasion with _just_ such a Red Pen Girl – in order to continue talking to Felicity while he stripped out of the previous night's clothes. When she still didn't say anything else... or answer his question, he prompted her, “Felicity?”  
  
“Hmm? What?”  
  
Oliver chuckled. “The trip... to anywhere?”  
  
“Yes. Right. Of course,” she exclaimed hastily, and, god, he really wished he could see her blush... and just how far down her neck, her chest, it went. “Space. If I could go anywhere, and, if it was safe, mind you, because no vacation, not even one to the stars, is worth dying for, then I'd totally go to 'infinity and beyond!'”   
  
He could see her in his mind then. Nearly tripping over his own pant legs in his rush to be naked and in the very bed he had taunted her with moments before, Oliver imagined Felicity looking to the sky and preparing for flight as she uttered those well-known and much-beloved words. “Of course you'd pick the one place I couldn't actually take you. Let's keep it to this planet, Smoak.”  
  
“Well, you did say anywhere,” she reminded him. “And isn't your cousin, 'Rich WhatsHisFace', coming up with some billionaires-only space travel program?”  
  
“Felicity, I'm not related to Richard Branson.”  
  
“Please,” she dismissed... probably with a dramatic wave of her hand and an eye-roll as well. Oliver toasted her sassiness with a healthy slug of champagne, licking his lips afterwards and wishing it was her tongue on his mouth instead. Soon. “Wealth is so incestuous, especially old money... like the Queens. You dig deep enough, and I guarantee you'll find a common ancestor.”  
  
It was on the tip of Oliver's tongue to ask Felicity if her rant was her way of offering herself up as fresh blood to his family tree, but he refrained, knowing that he had already pushed her enough that morning, especially if he wanted to get a straight answer out of her about his invite... which he hadn't even offered yet, because she still hadn't responded realistically to his dream vacation question. So, as he climbed into bed and switched his phone off speaker, Oliver steered them back to the topic at hand. “Felicity, where do you want to go?”  
  
“I'd say Barrons' Books and Baubles, but not even you, Oliver Queen, could take me there. Plus, I did say that, wherever I went, I didn't want to die, and you and Barrons in the same place? A book store, no less. And with me? Yeah, I think my ovaries would explode, which wouldn't work, because, you know, death.” Oliver was still choking on a laugh when Felicity sighed and _finally_ admitted, “I guess New Zealand, then.”  
  
“New Zealand,” he repeated, looking for an explanation, looking for some clarification. Oliver wasn't even sure if he knew exactly where New Zealand was on the map, and, now, Felicity was claiming it as her dream, realistic vacation destination? Perhaps this whole introduction to his invite hadn't been such a good idea after all....  
  
“Yeah. It has almost everything. If I'm only going to make it to one exotic location, it might as well be a place that has beaches and mountains, volcanoes and hobbits. Plus, it's the closest I'll ever get to Narnia.”  
  
Sometimes, he only understood about 50% of what she said. But he liked it, because it meant that Oliver was never bored. However, as he took another swig from the bottle of bubbly, he decided to cut his losses and get straight to the chase. “So, how do you feel about China instead?”  
  
It was Felicity's turn to repeat after him. “China?”  
  
“Well, we wouldn't be in China the entire time. We'd be at sea for most of the trip, actually – three weeks on my family's yacht.”  
  
In disbelief, Felicity asked, “and this is how your parents punish you for Sodapopping it out of _four colleges_?”  
  
“Yes. It's to help me start... transitioning into a role at QC,” Oliver grimaced as he explained. “I'm going to be shadowing my father, starting with this business trip.”  
  
“If this is a business trip, then I highly doubt you're supposed to be inviting strange girls to go with you.”  
  
Teasing her, he said, “you're not strange, Felicity; just... unique.”  
  
He could practically see her unimpressed look over the phone, and he smirked knowingly. “Very funny. You know that's not what I meant; you know I meant the fact that I'm sure your parents have never even heard my name before, and, now, you're inviting me along on a _family_ business trip.”  
  
“It's just my dad and I,” Oliver reassured her. He hoped it was reassuring. “Well, and the crew, too, I guess. My mom and sister won't be going. And, trust me, my dad knows me better than to think I'd leave town for three weeks without making... necessary arrangements first.” Oliver grimaced at his own choice in words, but it was too late to take them back now.   
  
Felicity sighed, and then her response was like a pin to the balloon of forced levity Oliver had been trying to live within since _the afternoon_ , the champagne doing absolutely nothing to push aside his panic, so he pushed it away instead, settling the bottle on his nightstand and then immediately forgetting about it. “How's Laurel?”  
  
Taking a deep breath, Oliver cast aside his carefree facade, and everything just came... pouring out of him. “A few days ago, I asked Laurel to come over. She'd just finished her finals, so I thought it was a good time to... end things. We got a pizza, and we sat down to really talk, and she just.... She asked me to move in with her.” Even now, days later, Oliver could hear the sheer incredulity in his tone. “I froze. I didn't know how to react. There I was, planning on telling her that it was over for good. No more hook-ups, no more patching things back together, no more reunions. We really haven't even been a couple for a long time, and she thinks we should move in together, that we're ready to move in together?”  
  
“People, especially those who love us, see what they want to see, Oliver. Laurel loves you. She's _in love_ with you. She takes you back all the time – after all the screw-ups, all the cheating. Of course, she's not going to realize that you might actually mean it this time.”  
  
Still frustrated, still lost for an explanation, Oliver insisted, “but how can she not see that the only reason I've been with her at all since I've been home is because, if you can't be with the one you want, want the one who's there?”  
  
Felicity sucked in a breath, and it was in that moment that Oliver realized that he might have said more than what they were ready for, more than what she was ready to hear. But he didn't take it back. He refused to take it back. “That's... that's not exactly how that expression goes.”  
  
“I know exactly what I was saying, Felicity.”  
  
“So, uh, how did you respond... to Laurel?” He could hear the fluttering of nerves and maybe even anticipation and pleasure in her voice. “To her suggestion that you move in together?”  
  
“I didn't,” Oliver revealed. “I panicked, and I got her out of the house as fast as I could.” Rubbing a hand over his face, tired now and crashing rapidly, he confessed, “I don't want to hurt her. I never have wanted to hurt her, but that hasn't stopped me in the past, but I'm trying to do things right now. To be better. But I'm starting to think that the only way that Laurel will ever take a break-up between us seriously is if I do it in a way that she'll never be able to forgive.”  
  
“I'm sorry to break it to you, Oliver, but shacking up with me on your family's yacht for three weeks won't cut it then. Not that I would do that,” Felicity added in a hurry. “Help you cheat on her. _Again_. We covered this already.”  
  
“No, I know you wouldn't, and I wouldn't ask you to; I wouldn't want _you_ to. But if you agreed to go with me on this trip, I'd just tell her it was over, taking care of the immediate for now, and then I'd worry about the long-term later.”  
  
“I'm sorry, Oliver, but I can't.” As she continued to talk, explaining why, yet again, she was telling him no, Oliver felt his exhaustion and dread turn into aggravation. “It's too far and too soon, not to mention how awkward it would be to live on a boat for three weeks with you and your _dad_. Plus, I've never been on a yacht before. In fact, I'm not sure if I've ever been on a boat before, and that says a lot, because I've lived in Cambridge now for three years, and these crazy Bostonians take their rowing _very seriously_. What if I got seasick? And ruined the trip? Ruined the business deal? No, I definitely can't go with you. I don't even have a passport.” Just as he was about to cut her off and end the call, because, really, there were only so many times that he could listen to her turn him down, push him away, Felicity said one more word that had Oliver sitting up, his foul mood being replaced with hope so quickly that he felt almost dizzy. Or maybe that was still the booze. “But....”  
  
“But,” he repeated, encouraged.  
  
“But... the first time you call me sober, Oliver, and you ask me to do something with you, for you, I'll do it... within reason, of course. As long as you're single.”  
  
He smiled so widely that it made his jaw crack and his face feel stiff... like he was using muscles he'd never even moved before. “When I get back home, you have yourself a deal, Miss Smoak.”  
  
“Really,” she questioned him. “Just like that?”  
  
“Apparently, all I needed was the proper motivation, because, suddenly, I have a plan that will end Laurel and I for good.”  
  
And he did; he did have a plan. Five months ago, when Sara came to him all but offering herself on a silver platter, Oliver hadn't been ready to take such drastic actions. But now he was. He needed to get out from underneath his relationship with Laurel once and for all, and if this was the only way he could do it, then so be it. Sara was a big girl. She was a consenting adult. If she was willing to sleep with her sister's boyfriend, then that was her problem. It was a shitty thing for Oliver to do – a classic Ollie move. While he was determined to change... and for the better, he also wasn't opposed to one last hurrah. He was sincere in his feelings for Felicity, but he also wasn't exaggerating when he told her that he wouldn't spend three weeks on a yacht with his father without the company of a willing woman. So, he'd do this. He'd go to China with Sara, he'd have one last fling and end things with Laurel permanently, and then he'd go to Felicity, and she'd help him become the man only she seemed capable of seeing within him.   
  
“Oliver, I have no idea what's in that head of yours, but are you sure it's a good idea?”  
  
“Trust me, Felicity,” he promised her. “It's foolproof.”

 


	12. February 13, 2008

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me.
> 
> ~Charlynn~

_February 13, 2008_

There was a man dead at his feet from a stab wound that Oliver was not responsible for, yet it still felt like his fault that the stranger, who would have gladly killed him, was dead. It didn't matter that Slade had shot and slashed ten others to get to the radio tower in order to kill his eleventh soldier of the night. The man before him had been Oliver's responsibility, and he had failed. If he had been able to just... subdue him, restrain him, knock him out or something, then there'd be one less death on his conscience, one less regret. It didn't help matters that he was holding the dead man's gun.  
  
With a shaking hand, Oliver threw the weapon aside. With Slade out doing... whatever it was Slade did, Oliver wouldn't need it, and, even if, for some reason, that changed, Oliver couldn't shoot anyone anyway. In doing so, however – in tossing the gun away, he was once again reminded of the satellite phone which had so captured his attention just minutes prior when he was standing outside the tower's door. Then, before he could think twice about his actions, he was moving. And then he was dialing. And then he was taking his first full breath of air in nine months.   
  
“Hello? Who is this? You're wasting my daytime minutes. Which is rude. And I have a rule about that. It's: don't. Plus, I don't recognize this number. It's wonky. If you're some foreign telemarketer, and I get charged some ridiculous _long_ -long distance fee, then I'll make you feel more pain than your pinching headset does after a double shift. Are you picking up what I'm putting down, buster?”  
  
He wanted to laugh, because it was Felicity. It was finally _her_. But he didn't. He couldn't. Oliver could barely swallow. His throat felt tight, his tongue swollen, and he could barely see past the sudden tears in his eyes. But he smiled. And his hand that wasn't holding the satellite phone dropped to his pocket where, safe and secure, he could feel the red pen he still carried beneath the fabric. It was beat up, and it wouldn't work... even if he could get his hands on some paper, but it was _hers_. “Felicity,” he whispered in recognition, in awareness, in acknowledgement. It felt good – the taste of her name in his mouth once again.   
  
In response, His Red Pen girl gasped, and Oliver rushed to say something, anything, of consequence. To say the things she needed to hear and that he needed to tell her. “You once told me that, if I was sober and single when I called you, you'd do anything for me... within reason. Well, I'm painfully clearheaded, the world thinks I'm dead, and I'm in love with you, so I'm hoping that'll suffice, because I need you to believe that I'm alive, Felic....”  
  
And that's as far as he got before the connection was lost, destroyed, and the call was cut off. Slade was berating him... like always, Oliver didn't even get to hear Felicity say his name like only she could, and the radio was calling for their attention in what Oliver was starting to think was yet another doomed mission. But it was enough. She was alive, and well, and she now honestly knew how he felt about her and could believe it, because there had been nothing between them for the first time – no alcohol, no drugs, no games, no Laurel... or anyone else – except the truth.   
  
Actually, no, it wasn't enough. On that island, in his own, personal hell, it was _everything_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Everyone,
> 
> So, yes, no big surprises here, but I hope that you enjoyed the subtle changes knowing Felicity made to this scene and, more importantly, the major changes knowing her finally made in Oliver. While I know that this is REALLY short, that was intentional. The scene needed to have a sense of immediacy, and the circumstances did not allow for a lot of introspection, let alone a marathon conversation between Oliver and Felicity. He had seconds to make more of an impact than he had in a year's worth of in-person and phone conversations. 
> 
> As for a sequel, I have some ideas. However, with that said, do not expect such a story anytime soon. (And this is certainly not a promise of a sequel either.) I need to finish Chipped Blocks (I have two more chapters to pen but thirteen to post), write the sequel to The First Time, complete the Devil Series, and, if you're familiar with my Pinterst board 'A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words,' you'll know that I've started working on a MAJOR story called Because the Night. 
> 
> Finally, thank you for your continued interest in this story. I hope this last chapter, though perhaps not the resolution everyone wanted, at least was a satisfying conclusion. 
> 
> ~Charlynn~


End file.
